A Red Sun Rises
by Tempest Rulz
Summary: Damon Salvatore is cocky and makes snow angels outside Winterfell's walls. Katherine Pierce is a mysterious woman who charms kings and subdues armies. Elena Gilbert doesn't even know the seven houses and can't see why there's no sugar on the Wall. And Robb Stark? He pulls them under his banner. Friendships form, enemies are made, and blood is on the menu. Rating could change to M.
1. Lost

Disclaimer: We don't own anything. Robb, Jon, Ned, Westeros, Essos etc. remain the property of Mr Martin, and Damon, Bonnie, Katherine, and their supernatural friends are creations of LJ Smith and Julie Plec.

**A Red Sun Rises**

_How had it all come to this? The blood, the screams, the death. Men fell all around him, dead before they could even utter a cry of horror, their throats torn from their necks. His sword dripped with red. Katherine, Damon; these faces and names were at once as familiar to him as if he had known them his whole life, and yet they had become alien. _

"_Katherine, behind you!" shouted Robb. His wife turned, her dark eyes made darker by bloodlust and her teeth gleaming white in her crimson grin. Her beauty was otherworldly and terrifying as she snapped the neck of the man who had thought attacking her from behind would give him a better chance. The white muslin of her dress had turned red long ago. _

_And Damon. Cocky, smiling Damon who had jested with Arya, flirted with Sansa, and built snow fortresses for them to fight in. Oh, he was still cocky, there was no doubt about it, but the speed and the grace with which he moved, and the fact he didn't need a sword to take out someone's heart…_

_The Freys' halls echoed with the screams of the dying and the snarls of those who simply refused to die. The flagstones were painted dark red. _

_How had it all begun? _

**Chapter 1: Lost**

At first, Damon thought he was dead. Not undead-dead, as he had been for the past century and a half, but dead-dead. He was a little disappointed in himself, actually, not least because he couldn't exactly remember how he had died.

Then he realized the cold he was feeling in his bones wasn't rigor-mortis, and it wasn't the apathy and nothingness of the afterlife. It was just freaking cold outside, and for some reason, he was lying in the mud. Well, it would have been mud if it hadn't been frozen.

He sat up, rubbing the heaviness from his eyes and blinking several times. Everything around him seemed foreign. A few hardy pines stood against the biting north winds and the grass clung stubbornly to the rolling hills, braced against the snow that was sure to come with those dark clouds. Breaking the landscape was the blackness of a leather jacket, and the person who wore it.

The last thing Damon remembered before waking up in this freezing hellhole was the blast of light knocking them back as the door of Silas' tomb had been opened. Who had been with him? Not Elena, fortunately. She was still –relatively− safe somewhere that was _not_ the same temperature as a meat locker. At least, he hoped that was the case. He hoped he'd done the right thing by sending her away right before he and Klaus and Bonnie had opened the tomb.

Well, he said 'sending' because that was the best word for it he could come up with, but chasing had been closer to the truth. The only way to keep her safe had been to keep her away, and the only way to keep her away was to severe all ties between them. She only fancied herself in love with him anyway because of the sire bond. Once she was human again, all of it would have just been a sweet nightmare that would haunt him for the rest of his immortal existence.

"Bonnie?" said Damon as he bent down over the unconscious girl. _Not_ his most favourite person in the world, and the feeling was mutual. Should he look on the bright side at least and be grateful that it wasn't Klaus? Although, Klaus would not be in need of rescuing in a situation like this.

"Hey, wake up, witchy," said Damon. He patted her cold lifeless cheeks. Her lips were tinged with blue. He tried to rub some warmth back into her arms and hands, but he knew that unless they found shelter –it seemed unlikely− and fire, she was never going to wake up from this coma. For the first time in his life, Damon wished he were a werewolf. They might be smelly and uncultured and dumber than most creatures –that brawn had to be compensated for− but they had higher body temperatures than…say…the average vampire.

"Shit," he muttered. Human-Elena would not forgive him if Bonnie died on his watch. He might not hold much hope for her still retaining those feelings for him once she turned human again, but he still _had _hope, and he wasn't going to put an end to it. He fed her a bit of his blood – just a _wee_ bit. He didn't give blood freely, especially not to people he didn't like. However, this was just the right amount. It kept her alive, but weak enough so she wouldn't give him a brain aneurism, as she was prone to doing.

The wind blew his words away. He took off his jacket and wrapped it around the freezing witch. This jacket, as lacking as it was, was better than nothing, right? Not that he actually liked Bonnie, but she was possibly the only person in the world who knew how to take them back to the United States of America where temperatures were more reasonable and where Elena was.

What was that moving on the horizon? A lone struggling man, running from something. Oh good. Dinner. "Be right back," he muttered to Bonnie, just for the sake of saying something. Damon didn't do silence well for long periods of time. The man was wearing a heavy fur cloak against the cold, and he kept glancing backwards. In fact, he glanced backwards so much he didn't notice Damon straight in front of him.

"Hey, buddy," said the vampire with a grin. "Going somewhere in a hurry? Outstanding parking ticket? Or have you been bear poaching?"

"I suggest you get out of my way," said the man, drawing his sword. He was a skinny thing. Couldn't be older than twenty. Malnourished, bad teeth, easy prey.

"And I'd suggest you be nice to me," said Damon, staring into the man's eyes. "You won't scream, and you won't remember a thing afterwards."

The man lunged at him, and if Damon hadn't been a vampire, he'd have been cleaved in half by the giant steel blade. As it were, the swing missed him by several inches as he moved to one side with inhuman speed, and before the man knew what was going on, the vampire had twisted his sword arm behind his back, making him drop the weapon.

"O-kay," said Damon. Compulsion didn't work? Was this man on vervain? He sniffed. It didn't smell as if he was on vervain.

"Look, if you're here to kill me, do it, but I'm not going back there."

"Back where?" asked Damon.

"The Wall! Isn't that why you're after me? Because I deserted? Look, I know I took an oath, but you didn't see what was out there. They were dead, but they weren't, and they killed that whole family. They got the others. They almost got me."

"If it's undead you're worried about, then this really isn't your day," said Damon.

And that was the end of _that_ conversation. Later, as he wiped the blood from his lips and let the body drop, he wondered what the man had been going on about. He had no vervain in his system, but he was immune to compulsion. He spoke of the living dead. And a wall. But he was quite sure it wasn't the Great Wall of China he was referring to. He'd been to China before, and this wasn't it.

He picked up Bonnie again and continued on his way…somewhere. If there was one human, there were bound to be more, right? He hoped. And the man had been running. Where the hell were his pursuers? He didn't have to wait long to find them.

A group of horsemen were approaching. Yes, _horsemen_. They even had those funny pointy medieval helmets and spears and everything. Either he'd stumbled into a really dedicated group of medieval cos-players, or there was something very wrong about this whole situation. He was more inclined to choose the latter. Still, people were people, and Bonnie needed help.

He started running towards them in a human fashion, all the while shouting for help. It grated on his pride to have to ask for anything from any human, but even he had to admit he wasn't invincible. Not everyone had the luxury of being a bastard vampire-werewolf hybrid.

Although, if they refused to help him, he might just pull a Klaus and slaughter them all, and skin their horses to make a tent.

Leading them was a weathered man who Damon presumed to be in his forties, or perhaps even younger. In these conditions, most humans would age prematurely.

The man reined in his horse right before Damon. If they had gotten any closer, Damon might have had to make horse-steak tartare. It was Intimidation 101 and he knew these tricks better than anyone. It had been a while since he'd tried them with a horse, though. For him, it was Lamborghinis all the way.

"What is your business here?" demanded the man. His face was covered with a thick beard which glistened with ice crystals, and he wore enough fur to resemble an Ice Age human. Perhaps this was what this was. An ice age.

"We're lost," said Damon. Technically true. After all, if he didn't know what universe he was in, then it counted as being lost. "We wandered off the path and could not find it again." He took a deep breath. The word that came next was one he never used if he could help it. It tasted bad. "Please. My friend needs help." He glanced down at the unconscious Bonnie in his arms. She looked pathetic, which could only help their cause.

The man motioned to some of the people behind him. Two armoured men dismounted. One wrapped a fur cloak around Bonnie carefully as the other offered another cloak to Damon. The vampire accepted it and thanked the man – a foreign action, as Damon Salvatore never said thank you if he weren't being sarcastic. However, Stefan occasionally got things right, and until Damon figured out where they were, it would be best if he took a page from his brother's book and exhibited some of the manners that had been drilled into him since birth. It wasn't because he needed the cloak, but it would stand out if he didn't need it. Being Human 101.

"What is your name?" asked the leader, more kindly this time. Damon supposed he looked pretty harmless –which couldn't be further from the truth, but King Arthur didn't know that, and Damon wasn't about to correct him.

"Damon," he replied. "That's Bonnie."

"Daemon, as in Daemon Blackfyre?"

"As in Damon Salvatore."

"Well, Damon Salvatore," said King Arthur. "The gods are either smiling on you or you have some dumb luck. It was no small miracle that both you and your friend are still alive. But, there still remains the question of what two young people are doing out here all alone. This is hardly the place for a lovers' tryst."

Damon flashed him a winning grin –the type that either charmed everyone or made them want to punch him in the face, depending on the context. Although they hardly ever did try to punch him in the face, because they knew if they did, he'd rip them a new grin all of their own.

"We're wanderers, sir," he said. Technically not untrue. He'd led quite a nomadic life in his pre-Elena days. "We go where there's work, and take what work we can get." Substitute 'work' with 'blood' and that was a very apt description of his life. Also, compelling people was hard work too. So was unearthing long buried immortal witches, stopping an apocalypse or several, killing hybrids, and staking originals. In fact, those were highly specialized and skilled jobs. Oh, and he'd been a soldier once upon a very very very very long time ago. But that had been a low skill job and since he'd deserted, he didn't think it was worth mentioning on his resume.

"Do you know who I am, Damon Salvatore?" asked Arthur.

Damon was sorely tempted to answer with something extremely intelligent, but refrained. He doubted they would appreciate his wit.

"Am I supposed to?" he asked.

"Show some respect," said a younger man sharply. "It is to Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, that you speak."

Eddard –what was wrong with Edward, apart from the fact the name belonged to a sparkly vampire?− Stark raised a hand. "He meant no harm by it, Robb," he said.

"Forgive me, my lord," said Damon. Lords were tricky creatures; extremely volatile in nature, oftentimes petty, and prone to one eighty degree mood swings. However, their veins all produced excellent vintages, thanks to the better than average food. He had not had very much experience with lords in general, having been turned after the feudal age, but the ones he had tasted –mainly in England and parts of continental Europe− had been very good indeed. "I did not know."

Eddard waved away his apology.

"I cannot fault you for not knowing," he said. "Although I am surprised a man as well-spoken as yourself would be ignorant of the great houses of Westeros."

Ah, so they were in _Westeros_, were they? Where the hell was that? Somewhere in the west, he supposed, which wasn't very helpful, as everything was relative because the world was round. He wondered if these people knew that. Possibly not.

In such a situation, it would be best not to say anything. Indeed, there were times –rare times− when even Damon Salvatore would keep his mouth shut.

"What do you do, Salvatore?" asked Eddard.

"Everything," said Damon. "But I am a fighter first and foremost."

"You are a soldier?"

"More a freelancer, but I could consider a more permanent position if you are offering. My lord."

Eddard chuckled while his men and young Robb, presumably some male relative of his, most likely his son, looked on in perplexity. "You have some courage, young man. We'll talk about it when we get back to Winterfell."

A panicked shout caught Eddard's attention. A horseman was galloping up to them, panic in his eyes. "M'lord, we found him," he said.

"Where is he?" asked Eddard.

"You should come and see this."

* * *

Robb Stark stared at the corpse of the man, so pale and drained of blood. His throat had been ripped out, but instead of the pool of gore one would expect in such a situation, there was…nothing.

"What could have done this, Father?" he asked. "The wound looks too small to have been made by a bear." No, he didn't believe in the farfetched tales the nurse had told him when he'd been a boy. There was nothing beyond the Wall except Wildlings and Dire Wolves and all manners of natural beasts. Dead things did not come back to life, and they certainly did not eat naughty children. Or Night's Watch deserters.

"Bandits?" asked the young man beside him doubtfully.

"There are bite marks," said Robb to his constant companion and his father's ward, Theon Greyjoy.

"Fair enough," said Theon. "A wolf, then?"

"Perhaps," said Ned. However, he seemed doubtful. He turned to his men. "Bury him." He didn't want anyone else to find the body and wonder if the old wives' tales were true.

* * *

Winterfell was as cheerful as its name implied. Dark stone, glistening with ice crystals. The portcullis was raised with a groan to admit the lordly party. Within were the sounds of goats and chickens and dogs and horses. The smell of unwashed human pervaded the whole courtyard. Baths, obviously, were a foreign concept to these people. The cold was the only thing stopping an epidemic of flees or the plague from spreading among them.

The unconscious Bonnie was quickly given over to the care of female servants and the 'maesters' –apparently the only people with decent education, rather like priests in medieval Europe. He supposed it would be suspicious if she healed too quickly because he gave her too much blood. However, no one would notice a drop or two in her nasty herbal teas, right? And no, that wasn't a sign of him caring.

Damon was taken to the barracks, where he was "fed" and "watered". The rations of cold meat and coarse bread were barely edible. He forced some down just for show, resolving to go hunting tonight. Even if military men might not be the best of choices, there were plenty of outlying farms with farmers and farmers' daughters. If he was back by dawn, who would know? Despite popular belief, he could be subtle. How else could he have survived for so long?

He attracted curious stares from the soldiers as magnets attracted iron filings. He just couldn't help it. One look at him, and they would _know_ he wasn't one of them. He was just too handsome and charmingly debonair.

"You don't look like much of a fighter," said one of the men with a little more than a sneer in his tone.

"They say not to judge a book by its cover, but then I don't suppose you've ever read a book," said Damon, lifting his cup in mock salute.

Another man snorted.

"And I suppose you have?" came Eddard Stark's voice. The men parted to let him through and bowed when he passed them. Damon, taking his cue from the others, also bowed.

"My lord," he said.

"I see you have settled in, Damon Salvatore," said Eddard. "Excellent. I would like to see what you can do."

A great many things, but this human façade was putting a little limitation on his flair.

He followed Stark and his men outside, where a small crowd had gathered to try and catch a glimpse of the very handsome stranger who had stumbled his way into this little town slash military boot camp. There was the normal part of the place, which had stalls with chicken corpses hanging by their feet, bunches of herbs, crates of vegetables, and a limited array of iron swords that looked as if they belonged in Hollywood's prop storage. Then there were the barracks with the seasoned male humans and all the testosterone that came with it. He heard them whispering as he passed, saying something about "soft southerners". Soft, was he? Well, they were softer.

The practise yard was basically a fenced off square of mud. Too many feet trampled any brave new shoots of grass attempting to grow there. Men had gathered around the yard to watch this spectacle. They really needed a new form of entertainment around here. Say, what about a circus? Contortionists made for excellent companions.

Another man got into the yard with Damon as his friend cheered him on. "Show the boy a thing or two!" one of them called. Damon's opponent was stocky, but short, and he wielded a sword like it was an extension of his arm. The vampire, on the other hand, was not going to be an easy adversary. He'd trained vampire hunters and ripped hearts out of hybrids before. And before that, he'd been a confederate soldier. A terrible one –a deserter, actually− but even so, he still learned a thing or two about stabbing people with long cold remorseless pieces of metal.

He teased his opponent mercilessly, dodging and parrying with ease, and adding in a few humiliating glances with the wooden practise sword. He didn't take it seriously. If he did, the man would be dead with a wooden sword protruding from his chest. He practically wrote the manual on stabbing people with wood. In the front and in the back, but mostly in the heart.

Within a minute, his opponent was disarmed, and he had a sword to his throat. "Good warm up," said Damon. "Who's next?"

* * *

The men of Winterfell were not men who would deny a challenge. They were proud Northerners, and slightly disdainful of their 'softer' southern counterparts. There was nothing soft about Salvatore, however, as he beat man after man after man without so much as running out of breath. "I can do this all day, my lord," he said to Ned as he gave him an over-exaggerated bow.

"He is very skilled," said Ser Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell's arms master.

"He is arrogant," said Ned. "He fears nothing. I cannot control a man like that."

"Men like this Salvatore are not controlled, milord," said Rodrik. "They are unleashed."

"He is a wild card."

"We have his friend. He will behave, if not for his own sake, then for hers."

Ned looked at Rodrik, a loyal man who had served him for years. His words were not without reason. To be honest, he could use a fighter like Damon. He wasn't Tywin Lannister, and he did not have the money to amass all the best warriors under the sun beneath his banner. But he could have Damon Salvatore. Who knew? He might even prove to be useful once winter came.

"All right, he stays," said Ned.

* * *

Warmth. Delicious warmth. Bonnie relished it. Somewhere not so far away, there was a crackling fire. "Good, you are awake," said a strange voice. The witch immediately opened her eyes to find herself staring at an unfamiliar ceiling. All her memories came back to her at that instant. Silas, the tomb, the spell. What had happened? It had gone wrong, as far as she knew, but how wrong exactly? And why was she covered in furs instead of a normal comforter?

"Where am I?" she asked, sitting up immediately, only to find that her body was weak.

"You're in Winterfell, child," said the stern but kindly nun who sat by her bedside, an embroidery hoop in her lap. What on earth? The room smelled of herbs and fresh…rushes? Bonnie remembered the medieval research paper she had to do. They used rushes in the medieval world to cover their floors and sometimes added lavender or lilacs as a primitive air freshener. This was exactly it. Had the spell gone _so wrong_ as to transport her back in time? And where the hell was Winterfell anyway?

"Where?" she could only repeat.

"Winterfell. Do you not know where that is?" The nun seemed very surprised by her ignorance.

"I haven't heard of it."

"It is in the north."

"Like…Alaska?" Please let it be Alaska, she thought. Alaska was ten thousand times better than medieval Siberia or something like that. Were there even people in medieval Siberia?

"It is the North, not Alaska…what is Alaska?"

"Who are you?"

"I am the Septa in Winterfell. Mordane is my name."

"Where is _the North_?" asked Bonnie. If not Alaska, then _Canada_ at least? Please let it be Canada, she thought.

The 'septa' looked at her as if she were crazy. "In Westeros, child. By the seven, do you know nothing?"

She heard the blood roar in her ears. The flames in the hearth flared and the wind suddenly rose outside in an almost human howl, voicing her terror and confusion and anguish. The old woman stood up abruptly. It was her sudden movement that dragged Bonnie back to the present, and she managed to stop it before any more trouble could be caused.

"That was strange," said Mordane, looking at Bonnie oddly. Bonnie ignored her comment.

"How did I get here?" she asked, more calmly this time. There could be no more accidents. Most people didn't like witches. It wasn't that she _couldn't _deal with people who wanted to kill her, but she didn't really want to have to.

"Your friend Damon intercepted Lord Stark on the road," said Mordane.

"Damon?" He was hardly a friend, but he was a familiar face, and for Elena's sake, he had tried to limit the number of times he had had to hurt her. Right now, even Damon was better than nothing. Hell, she might even settle for Klaus. But Damon was better than Klaus. "Where is Damon?"

"Last I heard, he was beating all the men at sparring and charming the ladies," said Mordane. She pressed her thin lips together in a barely veiled expression of disapproval. Damon tended to have that effect on people. Bonnie warmed up to Mordane a little more.

"Can I see him?" asked Bonnie.

"A word of advice, child. Stay away from men like him. A decent woman shouldn't even know someone like that."

"There's nothing going on between Damon and me," said Bonnie. "And there never will be anything." No way. Damon was obsessed with Elena. It was always Elena, and it always would be. Not that Bonnie would choose any differently. She'd pick Elena over Damon too.

The septa tsked but rose to summon Damon anyway. The vampire entered moments later, wearing a smug grin on his face. Bonnie considered wiping it off for him, but she needed him to tell her what was going on so they could corroborate their stories. Somehow, even dressed in loose trousers and a long tunic belted at the waist, Damon still looked like a rebel without a cause. As much as she did not like him, she could not deny he was a very good looking specimen of the masculine species.

"Bonnie Bennet."

"Damon Salvatore."

They stared at each other. Bonnie broke the silence first. "What's going on, Damon? How are we here? Where are the others?"

"No idea to the first and no idea to the second either," said Damon.

"What did you tell them?"

"That you and I are travellers from the south and you're just under my protection. Oh, and I'm a merc now."

"A what?"

"Mer-ce-na-ry."

"You don't have to say it like that. I know what a mercenary is."

"Just had to be sure. Hey, you don't have to look at me like that. You're safe. The Starks –they rule this…uh…place− they've taken us in."

"And obviously they've invited you in."

"It wasn't hard to get an invitation. It's a universal truth that I have a certain charming way about me." Damon shrugged. "We're safe here for now, until we figure out what to do and how to get back. Although, I suggest you keep that freaky side of yourself hidden."

"Duh," said Bonnie.

"They don't say that in Winterfell. You should learn to fit in if you want to live here."


	2. Dracula

**Disclaimer: **We don't own anything. Robb, Jon, etc. remain the property of Mr Martin and Damon, Bonnie, Katherine, and their supernatural friends are creations of LJ Smith and Julie Plec.

**Chapter 2: Dracula**

It was cold. No, it was freezing. It was effing freezing. It wasn't quite so freezing that Elena was prepared to swear yet. She was, after all, a vampire. But there were very many questions running around in her head chasing their tails. Or tales, rather, for there had to be _some_ story behind how she had ended up here in…what the hell was this place? It was snowing, and it looked as if it had been snowing for the last millennia or so, so definitely not Nova Scotia. The last thing she remembered was Damon sending her away. But surely he hadn't meant for her to go _this_ far away? Where was 'this' anyway?

She heard the whistle cutting through the howling wind, and if her reflexes hadn't been enhanced, thanks to a recent mutation, also known as 'turning', she would have been shot. Instead, she caught the arrow. What kind of rude person just shot at someone like that? Unless it was a vampire hunter?

"Do not move!"

Men in black –not those Men in Black− surrounded her. They wore furs against the cold, and dozens of sword were levelled at her person. Okay… Elena reminded herself to breathe and raised her hands, still holding the arrow she'd caught. "I don't want to hurt anyone," she said. Well, more like shouted. She was competing with the wind.

"Who are you?" demanded an imposing old man. He wasn't very tall, but Elena felt dwarfed by him anyway. His hair was thin, but he had a long white beard to make up for it, not that he looked anything like Santa Claus.

"Nobody, really," said Elena.

"What is your name, girl?" asked the man.

"It's Elena, and I'd appreciate it if you used it. I am nobody's 'girl'."

"Do you know who I am?" he asked.

"Should I? Look, I don't want any trouble. I just want to know where I am, and I'd like to go home."

"You are here, yet you do not know where you are?"

"Why am I supposed to know all of these things? No, I have no idea where I am, except it's freaking freezing, and I don't know who you are, or who you are, or who any of you are."

"You do not speak as if you are common born."

"And you do not speak as if you're from this century!"

* * *

The girl appeared out of nowhere, dressed in the most outlandish of clothing. What sort of woman wore trousers and no furs on the Wall? By rights, she should have been freezing to death right there and then, with her limbs turning to ice, but she was talking and moving as if everything about her was just fine. Snowflakes stuck to her long dark eyelashes and the wind whipped her hair about her face. Jeor Mormont had almost forgotten what women looked like. The Wildling Craster's many wives and daughters and daughter-wives hardly counted. This girl had a decidedly southern look about her, and an air that spoke of a protected upbringing. There was no doubt that she would be considered a great beauty anywhere.

"What is your house?" he asked of her.

She paused. "…Hufflepuff?" she said as if she were asking _him_ what her house was.

Behind him, there was a snort from Ser Alisser. Mormont ignored him.

"I have never heard of a noble house called Hufflepuff, girl. What is your family name?"

"It's Gilbert, and I really resent being called 'girl' by anyone. Who the hell are you people anyway? You know, swords went out of fashion about a century and a half ago."

_Swords _went out of fashion?! What in the world was she talking about? But before he could question her further, there was a shout. Two brothers of the Night's Watch supported a third between them. The man was bleeding heavily, dying. Droplets of ruby fell upon the snow. They spread and bloomed before they froze, and even the falling flakes could not cover the dark rosettes quickly enough.

There was a change in Elena's expression. Her eyes darkened, and moving faster than anyone could see, she was by the wounded man and drinking big greedy gulps from his wound before anyone could react. The horror that knotted in Mormont's chest could not be described. She was one of _them_! But before he could slay her, she suddenly bit her wrist, her unnatural fangs sinking into smooth pale flesh, and then put the wound to the man's mouth. "Drink," she told him. Blood still stained her mouth, but her eyes had returned to normal, and her colour was much improved.

The man drank, and before their eyes, his wound closed. It was unbelievable, a miracle, and Mormont had long given up on miracles. "How…?" he whispered.

"It's a long story," said Elena. She wiped the blood away from her lips with the back of her hand. She stood there awkwardly, wary, as if ready to fight her way from out of here at any time. Mormont had no doubt she would put up a very good try, and he could not afford to lose men like this. Besides, she had not hurt anyone, and her blood…

Well, that was a very big factor in his next decision.

"Come inside and tell me everything," he said.

* * *

The clacking of practise swords sounded dully from the practise yards. Robb was getting tired. Sweat ran down his face and his sword arm ached from parry after parry. Fighting on the defensive was not a good thing and only a man losing the fight would do it. He was losing the fight.

"You could always yield, my lord," said Damon as he easily stepped out of the way of Robb's attempt at a lunge. No matter how quickly Robb moved or how suddenly he changed his pace, Damon always seemed to be one step ahead, and he was always _faster. _And he was always smirking.

"That's _presuming_ you could beat me, Salvatore," said Robb, flashing Damon a smirk of his own. The response lost some of its impact because he was slightly breathless. What man wouldn't be after half a hour of rigorous duelling? Besides, it was _just_ slightly.

Robb's step faltered. He wasn't even sure how it happened, but the next moment, he'd been disarmed, and his practise sword was lying several feet away.

"Your presumption was correct, my lord," said Damon. "You know, as usual."

Robb let out a frustrated sigh. "I swear, you know what I'm going to do before I do it," he said.

"If you don't like losing, you could…you know, just not fight me."

"I could, but then you'd be bored."

"True, that, and _you_ have to learn from the best, of course, being the lord's son and all."

"I sometimes had doubts as to whether you have any notion of my station. Now I know you do, and you simply choose to ignore it."

Damon grinned. "It took you a while to find that out," he said.

"Why have I not tried to kill you yet?"

"Because you're smart enough to know you can't even if you tried."

"I would say you were insufferable, but I am afraid you would take it as a compliment."

"Why, thank you. It takes a man of a certain quality to test your mettle, Lord Robb." The older man gave him an extravagant mocking bow. "To say I pushed the upper limits of your tolerance is a compliment of the highest order."

Robb shook his head. He was used to it by now. Damon had no respect for anything or anybody. His acrid sense of humour agreed with Ned's son, and part of Robb envied the older man for his seeming lack of fear, although his father had warned him that it was foolhardiness, rather than courage. Still, men wanted to be Damon, and women just wanted Damon.

* * *

Life settled back into normalcy in Winterfell, and Ned thought nothing more about insolent Salvatore and his quiet dark-skinned friend, save for when the young mercenary beat Robb in the practise yard during sparring practise. Now the young lord of Winterfell trained everyday with Damon and made it his life's sole purpose to beat him. Robb swore that no matter how much he improved, Salvatore always stayed just that tiny bit ahead. "It's like he's teasing me, Father," said Robb.

"Any man can wield a sword well with enough practise," said Ned, looking up from his papers and briefly smiling at the boy. No, young man now. It was so hard to see one's children as being grown, no matter how tall they were or how old they were. "But only a lord can wield men." In the hearth, the fire crackled as a servant added some pine cones. Ned's study only held a few books and a large wooden desk where he often did his work. The narrow windows admitted little light, but it kept the heat in.

Even though Winterfell did not have very many people, there were still many minute matters to attend to. As lord, he oversaw everything, and there was a lot of everything. As a result, he spent many hours inside his study dealing with disputes between merchants and farmers and gauging the price of grain.

"You should try wielding Damon," said Robb. He flexed his ink-stained fingers and glanced out the window, wishing he could be outside instead of cooped indoors learning to deal with duties he would one day take over. "You'd have better luck getting Arya to embroider."

"Salvatore is in a category all of his own," said Ned. He handed Robb a sheaf of papers; letters sent in from the chieftains of the surrounding villages. "What do you think of this?"

Lately, reports had been coming in from the outlying settlements around Winterfell about a strange predatory beast that attacked unwary peasants or travellers. The victims reported being seized by something immensely strong and then being bitten, but the beast never killed. Its prey only suffered puncture-like bite wounds, and they healed relatively quickly. However, it was always people who got attacked. The livestock that were left outside overnight were absolutely fine.

"It's odd," said Robb. "I've never heard of anything like this before." He turned to Maester Luwin. "Do you know what it is, Maester?"

The old man shook his head. "Never has such a beast been recorded. People say it never makes a sound, and no one has ever seen it. It is so quick and so silent. They only feel the bite, and some do not even remember how they acquired their wounds. There is very little to go on."

"I am going to send you out to the villages to investigate the matter," Ned told his son. "The peasants are frightened. They need to know we will protect them."

Robb nodded, although Ned could see it in his eyes he was a little dismayed by the task. It was too mundane. His son dreamed of bigger things. "At once, Father," he said.

* * *

"Where is Transylvania?" asked Arya eagerly. The girl had a smudge of dirt across the bridge of her nose, but she didn't seem to notice or care. All the children's eyes were wide, and Damon loved the way they leapt backwards whenever he suddenly leaned forward to impersonate Dracula. Scaring children and giving them nightmares were all good fun. Now, if only he could scare Jon, who sat on a bale of straw sharpening his sword with long smooth strokes of the whetstone while listening to the story and not saying anything. Unfortunately, Eddard Stark's bastard seemed to have Stefan's sense of humour and imagination. Damon would have to fix that.

"It's not actually a real place, Lady Arya," said Damon, improvising on the tale. He didn't want to explain how Transylvania existed when no one else in Westeros had seen it.

"I wouldn't mind being Dracula," said Theon. "Three beautiful women adoring me, worshipping me…I could live with that."

"You wouldn't be living," said Jon quietly. "Dracula died before he became a vampire."

"So he has no heartbeat, and he does not need to breathe, but he can move and fuck, and he can do it forever," said Theon. "That's not being dead. That's life."

"What is dead may never die," said Damon with a condescending grin. No one seemed to notice the condescending part.

"Precisely!" exclaimed Theon. "It's perfect! I would be an excellent vampire."

"There's no such thing," said Robb. They all turned to see him approaching them, armoured and with a groom leading his horse behind him.

"And you would know this how, my lord?" asked Damon.

"Because no man is so evil that even Death would reject him and make him immortal," said Robb.

"He impaled two thousand of his own people on stakes, going up their anus −"

"Damon," said Jon sharply as Arya's eyes widened.

"You get the idea. They lived for days after," said Damon.

Robb snorted. "No such thing ever happened. If it had, it would have been recorded in the histories, and I would not have been as bored in my lessons. And no, I really do not have the time to discuss this. Some of us actually have responsibilities."

"Where are you going, Robb?" asked Arya. "Can we come?"

"I don't think so," said the eldest Stark boy. "Father has sent me to investigate the animal attacks."

"Do you think a vampire did it?" said his sister eagerly, not put off at all by his refusal.

"Don't be ridiculous, Arya. Vampires are just like the white walkers; monsters made up by nurses to scare children into going to bed," said Robb. "They're not real. Most likely we're dealing with a strange oversized parasite, like a giant tick."

A giant tick? What an utterly inappropriate comparison. Damon was hardly a 'tick'. But then, he expected too much of people's imaginations. The men of Winterfell were highly practical. They did not believe in legends, and occasionally believed in the gods. That was despite the fact they lived in a world that had dragons. Or used to have dragons. Thankfully, the fire-breathing nasty beasties were extinct. He supposed dragons to them were like pterodactyls to modern Americans.

"Well, has anyone seen it?" persisted Arya.

"No, but it's not a vampire," said Robb. "Dead people do not rise to haunt the living."

"You seem very sure, milord," said Damon.

Robb snorted as he mounted his horse. "The day I believe in dead men rising from the grave to drink the blood of the living is the day is the day I see it myself, Salvatore. And I don't think that's going to happen anytime soon," he said.

"How are you going to catch the beast, Robb?" asked Jon, speaking up for the first time.

"It attacks men outside after dark, does it not?" said Robb. "Well, here's a man waiting for it after dark."

Well, if Robb was_ that_ enthusiastic…

…who was Damon to deny him?

* * *

The flames crackled in the hearth and orange light flickered on the stone walls. Bonnie tried not to think about them. If she concentrated too much, they would go out of control. In a strange twisted way, Winterfell was probably one of the best things that had ever happened to her. Sure, she was in a completely strange place away from all her friends and family –Damon didn't count− and she had no idea if she would ever see them again. But it was a new start for her. No magic, no witches, hybrids, no Silas. She was just Bonnie Bennet, companion to Lady Arya Stark because she was the only one who could keep up with her.

"Ow," she hissed as she stabbed her finger with the needle again. Honestly, she did not know why Septa Mordane complained about Arya's needlework. Bonnie was a thousand times worse. She was supposed to be embroidering a flower, but she might as well have been working on a piece about the Conquests of Aegon. There was certainly enough blood involved.

"I see the needlepoint isn't going so well, Bonnie?" came a voice from the door. Bonnie looked up to find herself enraptured by the grin of one Theon Greyjoy. Lord Stark's ward was not the handsomest man in Winterfell −would be either Robb or Damon or Jon, and she was veering towards either Robb or Jon− but he was seemingly the friendliest. At least, he was the friendliest towards Bonnie. It wasn't to say that the others were not kind to her. Lord and Lady Stark had been more than kind, giving her a position as Arya's maid and allowing her to stay even though they didn't really know her all that well. Robb was always distantly polite and superior, and Jon was quiet and serious and always called her Mistress Bennet, making her look behind her to see if he was talking to someone else. But it was Theon who went out of his way to ask her how she was. She might not have had the most successful dating career –they either worked for the enemy or died, or it got complicated− but even she could tell that Theon was more than just being friendly.

And, funnily enough, despite his cheesy pick-up lines which he tried once or twice on her, she was responding to him. She didn't do alpha males like Robb Stark, or lone wolves like Jon Snow. And she definitely did not respond well to jerkasses like Damon, who probably trademarked the term. But Theon, with his quick smile and his eagerness to please…that worked.

"It's fine," she said, holding up her embroidery for him to see. "A few more drops of blood and maybe we'd have the sacking of…some fortress or another. Lady Arya's right. Needlepoint is a pain in more than one way."

Theon chuckled. "Then I suppose Lady Stark found Arya the perfect companion."

"Why aren't you out with the others, Lord Theon?" she asked. "I thought you were going riding."

"So did I, but then I changed my mind," said Theon. "Jon and Salvatore can look after the little ones well enough on their own. You, on the other hand, seem to need rescuing."

"From what?" asked Bonnie.

"From yourself," said Theon. "Why are you here when the sun is shining and there's actually good weather? With winter coming, it's not going to last."

"What do you have in mind, my lord?"

"Well, I have a few ideas, but you would slap me for most of them." Yes, she'd slapped him once for making an inappropriate comment to her. Since then, he had realized that she wasn't one of the girls at the brothel who would take his bullshit as long as it came with gold. As far as Bonnie was concerned, it had been a win-win situation. Theon learned an important life lesson, and she gained respect.

Theon offered her his arm. "For now, however, I was thinking we should go for a walk before the sun goes down. I don't want to be eaten by a vampire."

"Believe me, milord, that's not going to happen. Any vampire worth his salt−fangs, rather, ought to be afraid of us."

* * *

The last rays of the sun slipped beneath the horizon, leaving splashes of red and purple in the sky. The stars were beginning to come out like a dusting of snow upon a frozen lake. Columns of smoke rose from chimneys made of mud bricks. Behind him, Robb heard the men going about building up fires and the villagers preparing the evening meals.

So far, all was quiet, and there was no sign of any wild beast or Count Dracula roaming about. Somewhere in the woods, an owl hooted softly as it woke. The trees became nothing more than tangled shadows. There were fewer people out now. The villagers were shutting their doors against the night. The village behind the next hill had been attacked just a few nights ago. The creature never attacked the same place twice in a row and these people feared they would be next.

Robb, on the other hand, was counting on it. He wanted to be the one to catch the 'vampire'. The phantom accolades already sounded in his ears. He knew it was a little silly. It was just an animal, no matter how frightening, and they were hardly going to hail him the new Aegon for capturing it. Besides, he did not know if the creature was going to strike this village tonight, or whether it was going to strike tonight at all.

But still, he dreamed of how he would be given a hero's welcome when he went back to Winterfell with the beast in a cage. He had no idea what it would look like, but he was certain it would not look anything like a man with fangs.

Somewhere, a dog barked and a cow lowed. A crying baby was quickly hushed by its mother. He sighed. Well, that was the end of that. There was no vampire and no giant tick. There was not even a small tick. Not that he actually wanted a tick. Those were nasty.

He stared at the sky and wandered aimlessly outside the village's palisades. If he'd been at home, he'd have been jesting with Theon or teasing Jon for not having a sense of humour, and maybe settling yet another one-sided food fight between Sansa and Arya. Oh, and stopping Bran from trying to steal his dessert. He wondered what was for dessert tonight.

Something flew by his ear, and before he knew it, a weight crushed him to the ground. Something suspiciously like a hand covered his mouth. Whatever it was, it was strong. Sharp pain lanced through his neck. He tried to reach his sword, but it was in vain. The creature had him completely pinned, and he could not even shout for help. His struggles only made the creature's fangs sink deeper as it drank from him. Hot blood ran down the neck of his shirt and soaked the fabric. He heard breathing close to his ear, and then a sigh of satisfaction that was almost human, but more animalistic than most men.

And then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the creature was gone with just a brush of wind.

Robb scrambled to his feet. "To arms!" he cried, having finally found his voice. "To arms!"

"Milord?" asked one of the men.

"It was right there," panted Robb, looking around frantically, but he could see nothing. The ring of light cast by the torches was woefully small. "It attacked me."

"You're bleeding!"

"I know. It bit me," said Robb. "We need to get inside. Now. It won't return so soon, I don't think, but I'd rather not risk it. Tomorrow, we ride at first light for Winterfell."

* * *

Robb had been attacked? Jon threw down the bow and rushed to the gates, fearing the worst for his brother. He had to push his way past the crowds that had gathered. Their hushed whispers were not soft enough to evade him. There was a monster prowling about. A monster that preyed on men and drank their blood. It had no form, it stalked the night unnoticed, and it disappeared without a trace when dawn came. It was something from beyond the Wall, they said. It had come down south with the cold. Winter was coming, and with it, unspeakable terrors that, until then, had belonged in children's nightmares and fanciful tales.

He reached the gates just as Robb dismounted, a bandage around his neck. He was a little paler than usual, but otherwise he seemed unharmed. Catelyn fell on her son, inspecting every inch of him. Ned was more restrained, but there was no mistaking the worry in his eyes.

"I'm all right," said Robb, reassuring his mother. "The bleeding took longer than usual to stop, but it has stopped, and the wounds are not deep."

"Nevertheless, come inside and have Maester Luwin examine you," said Catelyn, practically shoving Robb towards the keep. Jon fell into line behind the others, making sure to not be noticed.

"I told you," whispered Arya. "It's a vampire."

"There's no such things as vampires, Arya," snapped Sansa half-heartedly, although it seemed as if she were trying to convince herself rather than her sister.

Arya stuck out her tongue at Sansa.

Jon felt, rather than heard, Damon fall into step beside him. Without saying anything, the older man handed him a head of garlic.

"What is this for?" asked Jon. Then he remembered Damon's tale, and Count Dracula's revulsion for garlic. "You cannot be telling me that you believe in this vampire nonsense?"

"What other explanation is there?" asked Damon. "Besides, it can't hurt."

Despite not wanting to admit it, Jon agreed. He silently took the garlic and pocketed it, reminding himself to take some to his brothers and sisters later.

* * *

Bonnie tried not to look at Damon. If she did, she probably would have given him a brain aneurism right there and then. It wasn't as if he didn't deserve it. Eating villagers was bad enough, but biting _Robb Stark_? Was he_trying_ to be discovered? Instead, she focused on pounding the leaves and bark into a poultice as per Maester Luwin's instructions.

Robb winced as the bandage was pulled away from his neck. The dried blood made its removal a bit more difficult than it ought to have been.

"You are lucky the wounds are not very deep, milord," said Luwin as he examined Robb.

"It never tried to kill me," said Robb. "It could have, but it did not want to. I think the creature, whatever it is, it only drinks. It does not kill."

"It has never killed," agreed Ned. "I suppose that is one thing to be thankful for. But it is a concern, especially since the king is coming."

"The king?" said Robb.

"Yes, the king," said Ned. "He sent word by raven this morning. He will be here in two months' time. I would like for the beast to be gone before then. The last thing I want is for it to be venturing inside Winterfell and attacking the royal party."

"That will not be an issue, milord," said Damon with a bow. "My men and I will make sure it doesn't come within Winterfell's battlements."

"You don't have any men, Salvatore," said Ned, raising an eyebrow.

"I will if you give me some."

* * *

Author's notes: Haha, Damon's got responsibilities. Scared now?


	3. Mirror Mirror

**Disclaimer:** We don't own anything. Robb, Jon, etc. remain the property of Mr Martin and Damon, Bonnie, Katherine, and their supernatural friends are creations of LJ Smith and Julie Plec.

**Chapter 3: Mirror Mirror**

To say that Damon was pissed off was an understatement. Yes, Ned had put him in charge of ten men –ten! He'd killed the same number before in the space of ten minutes− and under the command of Ser Hagan Sigimund, a lieutenant under Ned who was well known amongst the men for never really amounting to much. When Damon had asked to be put in charge of men, he'd never thought he'd be taking orders from anyone other than Ned. Robb seemed to find this horribly funny. Damon only wished he'd bitten him harder.

Ser Hagan Sigimund was the man who had called Damon a 'soft southerner' when he had first arrived in Winterfell. Since Damon had challenged his ability to read –and it turned out that Sigimund _couldn't_ read− they had…not been on friendly terms. However, he wasn't worth so much that Damon would call him an enemy. More like…a nuisance. But now that he had been put in charge of Damon, he had been elevated to constant irritation, and a day did not go by when Damon didn't want to rip his throat out.

Except that would be _too_ big a bread crumb. The Starks weren't that dumb.

"With all due respect, Ser Sigimund, I don't think traps with hunks of venison is going to do much to attract the beast," said Damon.

"Your purpose is to obey, not question, Salvatore," said Sigimund, who clearly relished the prospect of forcing Damon to do useless and mundane tasks just because he could.

"Has this beast ever shown any inclination for eating animals, much less dead animals?" asked Damon. "It eats _live_ people, although I wonder if it might not mistake you for something else."

"Well, then, Salvatore," said Sigimund. "Since you are so eager, you may stay outside Winterfell's walls all night and reflect. Who knows? Maybe you're right and the beast only eats live men."

Dammit. Damon knew he'd pushed the man's limits. They weren't averse to corporal punishment in Winterfell. Not that he was afraid of it, but the problem would be once he healed immediately before their eyes. Now _that_would raise questions.

So he had no choice but to stand in the snow.

* * *

There had been a purpose in putting Damon under Hagan Sigimund's command. Ned had wanted to subdue Damon's spirit, even if just a little. The man was too arrogant. He acted as if he were a lord, rather than a soldier. True enough, he had the accomplishments of a lord –he played music better than Robb who, admittedly, was tone-deaf− and the bearing of one, but he was _not_ a lord, and it would be best for him to understand that. Perhaps standing in the snow for a couple of hours would convince him that he could not do whatever he wanted and get away with it.

He heard the murmurs before he saw it, but when he did…

Even Lord Stark was allowed to be speechless sometimes.

Damon had built a snow sculpture outside Winterfell. But it wasn't just _any_ snow sculpture. It was a sculpture of Sansa.

Somehow, in the four hours that he had been out there without the appropriate clothing, he had not frozen. Not only that, but he also seemed to have enjoyed himself.

Ned was _almost_ ready to relent when he saw Sansa's face upon beholding the sculpture, but Damon was far too unaffected by his recent punishment. When would he get the idea?

"Damon Salvatore," he said as he walked through the gate, followed by crowds and crowds of people who wanted to see the marvel that he had created in Sansa's likeness. "Did you not understand you were meant to be reflecting?"

"Well, I _was_ reflecting, my lord," said Damon as he dusted snow off his bare hands. "But a man can only admire his own reflection for so long and the puddle got snowed over."

To Ned's right, Robb hid his inappropriate and ill-timed laugh with a cough. Otherwise, no one said anything. No one _could_ say anything.

"Come inside, Salvatore," said Ned. "You must be freezing." He gave up.

* * *

As if one Sansa was not bad enough, now there were _two_. Arya scowled at the snow sculpture which still glistened in the sun. It was too cold for the snow to melt. Everyone was commenting on how beautiful it was, and in turn, how beautiful Lord Stark's eldest daughter was.

"Why did you have to make a sculpture of _Sansa_ of all people?" she demanded of Damon. It was childish and she knew it, but she wished someone would make a snow sculpture of her.

"Yes, why did you?" asked Robb, who was worried for an entirely different reason. Everyone knew Sansa liked Damon. Not just liked him. She _like-_liked him. Sansa thought he was the most handsome man in all of Winterfell, with his ice blue eyes and his smirk. Arya thought Robb and Jon were a lot more handsome, but she didn't say anything. Sansa would never agree with her.

"Because I wanted to make something beautiful, and Lady Sansa is the most beautiful thing in Winterfell, no offence, Lord Robb," said Damon, winking at Sansa. The older girl blushed prettily and her eyes practically glowed as she smirked at Arya. Dear seven! She was going to be insufferable for the rest of the week. No, the rest of the _month_.

"Thank you, Damon," said Sansa. "You flatter me."

"It's not flattery when it's true, my lady," said Damon. Arya felt sickened. She didn't understand how _anyone_ could be beguiled by Sansa. Didn't they know how mean she was? She'd spread so many lies about Arya that no one wanted to be friends with her. The girls all whispered behind her back. She'd even tried to say Arya was a bastard, until their mother put a stop to it. But she had their father wrapped around her little finger, and both their mother and Septa Mordane thought she was a perfect little lady, and Robb adored her. It was always Arya who was in the wrong. Arya had provoked Sansa. Arya had ruined Sansa's dresses –well, she had, but it was in retaliation! And now _Damon_ thought she was perfect? Arya had thought he would be too smart for that. Obviously not.

She turned away from real Sansa to snow Sansa. Ugh. That was a new word of disgust she'd learned from Bonnie. It encompassed everything from boiled cabbage to preening sisters. And then suddenly, she remembered the slingshot in her pocket.

The youngest Stark girl was well known for her excellent aim. No one ever praised her for it, unlike the way they praised Bran when he hit a tree while practising archery in the forest, provided it was the right tree. That didn't happen too often so it was worthy of praise, she supposed. But they all knew she could hit whatever she wanted, particularly when it came to a slingshot. It took a moderate-sized stone, and quick moment to aim. Snow flew everywhere as the head of the sculpture shattered.

There. Now neither of the two Sansas were smirking.

"Arya!" cried Sansa.

"Aw, come on!" said Damon. "It took me ages to get her nose right!"

Arya shrugged. She wasn't sorry. Not really. She knew she hadn't hurt Damon's feelings –that was impossible− and she didn't really care about Sansa's.

"Arya, come, you should not have done that," chided Robb gently, ever trying to be the peacemaker between the two girls. It never ever worked. Mainly because he always took Sansa's side. The only other person who understood the real Sansa took Arya's side was Jon, and Jon wasn't here. Besides, even if Jon did say anything, no one listened to him. "You should apologize to Sansa and Damon."

The girl stayed silent and stared at her brother. Fine, this time, it had been unprovoked, but it was in retaliation for all the times Sansa had done things to her and she hadn't been able to get her back for it.

Damon crossed his arms and leaned back against the battlements, that smirk on his face.

"After all the work Damon put into it, you just ruined it!" exclaimed Sansa.

"Damon was supposed to be reflecting anyway," said Arya, stubbornly holding her ground.

"But he got sick of looking at his own face, which is unsurprising, really," murmured Robb.

Damon pretended to be offended. "Do you mean to say I'm not pretty, my lord?" he said in a ridiculously high pitched voice as he jutted out his bottom lip and widened his eyes. Robb snorted and shoved him away.

"How can a mercenary like you be so ridiculous?" he demanded.

"You don't survive for as long as I have by being serious, Lord Robb," said Damon, returning back to normal. They seem to have forgotten about the girls already, much to Arya's satisfaction and Sansa's dismay. "What's the point of living if you can't have fun?"

"Most people would not see it that way," said Robb.

"Most people don't have my brilliance," said Damon.

"My father does not see it that way."

"Now you're just baiting me."

Robb looked disappointed. "I was hoping you might say something inappropriate so we can sentence you to reflect on your actions again. I want to know how long you can bear to look at your face."

"Forever," said Damon. "I mean, you've seen my face, right?"

* * *

The kitchens on the Wall, as this place was called, looked nothing like a proper kitchen. There were a few wood stoves, and that was it. Sometimes, they became dung stoves because they only thing they could burn was faecal matter, thawed and dried. The stench was sometimes overpowering, but it was the warmest place in all of Castle Black.

"You cannot stay here without serving some known purpose," Mormont had said to Elena. "I want to keep the secret of your blood and your…birth this way. Secret."

So Elena had volunteered to cook without understanding that there wasn't actually anything to cook _with_. There was grain of various sorts, depending on the benevolence of the nearby lords, who, more often than not, forgot the Night's Watch even existed. Usually, only the Starks of Winterfell cared enough to send anything.

There was snow, which could be melted to make water. The lack of maple syrup, or syrup of any kind, made snow cones an impossible dream.

And then there was the lichen that was tough enough to grow on rocks under snow. She tended to mix it into the gruel-stew stuff so no one would notice. The men had an aversion to greens scraped off the rocks, and her first attempt at a dressing-less lichen salad had been soundly rejected by all.

"No sugar?" she had asked the head cook when she'd first arrived. He had simply stared at her as if she'd asked for truffle flakes. "All right. No sugar. What about salt? Come on, salt and sugar are the basics. Okay, what about pepper?"

He'd stared at her a bit more.

"One would have thought you'd grown up a Lannister, the way you go on about salt and sugar and pepper," he'd said, thrusting a pot at her. "There's grain and water, and dried meat enough for a meat stew."

That had been several weeks ago. Since then, she'd tried her best to improve the fare to the point where she was now the sous-chef and in charge of a small group of cooks of her own. They were now working at the stoves, stirring gruel and stews and cutting meat as she directed them. Oh, her friends would laugh. The only thing she'd been able to make at home had been pasta and the occasional caesar salad with store bought salad green mixes and dressing.

When she thought about how her life had come to this, she had to laugh. A few months ago, she'd just been a regular girl from Mystic Falls, going to school, attending dances, and freaking out over algebra tests. Sure, she'd been dating vampires and trying to end immortal hybrids, but even that now seemed normal in comparison to this. People didn't simply teleport to different universes –well, obviously she knew they did now.

Lord Mormont had been kind to her. He'd allowed her to stay while she figured out what to do with the rest of her immortal life, provided she helped out and provided blood when needed. In return, the men each had to take turns feeding her their blood. Meanwhile, he oversaw her education when he could, trying to help her remember the great houses of Westeros and basic current affairs. Unfortunately, he just didn't have that much time, and she was mostly left to muddle it out for herself. She still called the crown prince Jeffrey rather than Joffrey from time to time.

Without knowing it, she began to sing Katy Perry's 'I Kissed a Girl', out of tune and missing half the words in the verses, as she took stock of what was in the pantry. Hmm…the men would probably need to go hunting soon. They were running low on dried meat and smoke-cured blood sausages−

"That would be a sight to see," came a voice from the door.

Elena looked up to see the First Ranger, Benjen Stark. He was a tall thin man with wary blue eyes that seemed perpetually narrowed, as if he was inspecting something in great detail. He could not have been more than thirty five, yet the harsh climate had left their mark on him. His face was lined from years of exposure to the wind and cold.

She stopped singing immediately and blushed. "Oh, I didn't realize I was singing, or that you were there…"

"You can pretend I'm not here if you want to continue singing," said Benjen, knowing very well that she couldn't. "I was rather enjoying the song."

A compliment from Benjen Stark was hard to come by. In all the time she had been on the wall, he had watched her incessantly, as if he were afraid she would betray the Night's Watch. Although he also appreciated the numerous times that her blood had healed wounded brothers. That was the only reason why he even tolerated her presence.

"Are you looking for something, First Ranger?" she asked.

"Provisions," said Benjen. "I am heading south."

"Are you allowed to head south?" she asked.

"I have Night's Watch business at Winterfell," he answered, and it did not sound as if he was going to elaborate. She didn't ask for further details, knowing fully well she could find out later if she so chose. The men of the Night's Watch might be the dregs of society or people so tough that hell itself would spit them back out, but human nature being what it is, they enjoyed a good bit of gossip as much as the next desperate housewife. Especially since there was not much else to do on the Wall.

"Can I ask you a favour?" she asked. He looked up and examined her with his piercing blue eyes that would have made her human-self shrink back and mumble an apology. But Vampire Elena was better than this. "I was wondering if you could bring back some onions and carrots? And grain. Oats would be best. And salt. We _desperately _need salt."

Benjen raised an eyebrow at her. "Onions, carrots and salt, Elena Gilbert? You seem to forget that we are of the Night's Watch, and we are not here to eat fine food."

"Men who eat well fight better," said Elena. "Please."

"I'll see what I can do." With that, he filled his bundle with a few of her grain cakes and sausages, and left the kitchens in the hands of the cooks again.

It was almost time for dinner. She left the other cooks to serve it to the men while she ladled out a bowl of meat stew for Maester Aemon. She always took his meals to him.

He was full of knowledge about Westeros, and she was desperate and wanting to learn. Like Mormont, he had been extremely kind to her, and he'd often taken time to tell her stories about Westeros. He spoke to her about conquerors on dragon's backs, and of the plague of White Walkers which had swept across Westeros before a god or something rather drove them back. She always enjoyed hearing those stories. They were like fairy tales, except this was the history of Westeros.

He, in return, was curious about vampirism and often wondered if her coming signalled something more. "There has never been true immortality in Westeros," he had said when she had revealed to him that vampires lived forever. "This gift, Elena Gilbert, is something men would fight wars over. It would be best if the secret never left the Wall."

She placed the bowl in a pot packed with sack cloth to try and keep it warm, along with a few grain cakes fresh out of the oven. Aemon's study was quite a distance away from the kitchens and she didn't want the food to get cold during the time it took for her to get there. Vamp speeding would have made everything easier, but she tried to limit that so as to not frighten the men.

The maester was in his study, mixing herbs, as she usually found him. Although he was blind, he knew each plant by feel and smell so well that he did not even need to see them.

"Elena, would you pass me the wormwood, please?" he asked without even needing to turn around.

"I don't know how you know it's me," said Elena, setting down the small pot before going over to the shelf where the jars of herbs are kept. She sniffed all of them, trying to remember what wormwood smelled like. She grimaced when she found it –not something she would want to ingest− and then handed the dried leaves to the master, who added them to the paste he was making.

"I have ears," he said. "You have the softest step of them all, and when I smelled that soup and your grain cakes, I thought, 'Who else could it be?'"

He wiped his hands on a thin linen towel and bid her sit down at the old wooden table, darkened with age and with cracks running through it. Scrolls and maps lay scattered. She surmised it had been here even before Aemon had arrived, and that was saying something.

"What is the motto of House Lannister?" he suddenly asked her.

"What?" asked Elena.

"Motto. House Lannister. Come, child, you know this."

She tried to think back. House Lannister was represented by a lion. Their motto had something to do with a lion and a feminist liberation song back in the real world…

"Hear me roar," she said.

"That took you a little longer than it should."

"I spent all day in the kitchens. My sinuses need clearing and I need a drink," she said.

"Well, it was not very hospitable of me not to offer you one."

"Maester Aemon, you don't have to−" But he had already opened up a vein in his wrist. A thin trickle of blood fell into a pewter cup. He timed it long enough so that there would be at least a couple of mouthfuls for Elena before closing up the vein and smearing another poultice on it. This one was almost black, but tinged with red…

"Vampire blood is truly miraculous," said Aemon. "I only used a few drops, but this has already saved many wounds from festering."

Elena shyly took the cup of blood and tentatively took a sip.

It burned her mouth, her throat, as if she were swallowing live flames. She choked, spraying blood everywhere. Still, the pain remained until the maester quickly handed her a cup of water to quench the fires burning within her.

"A curious reaction," said Aemon.

"What did you eat?" she gasped.

"Nothing different from any of the men," said the maester. He fixed his blind eyes on her, and for a moment, she saw the young man he used to be. Behind the mask age had given him, his bone structure still remained. He must have been handsome when he had been young. "I do wonder…" he whispered, half to himself and half to Elena. Then he shook his head.

"I am boring you, Elena," he said. "A beautiful young woman like yourself should not be wasting your time with me, or on the Wall. You belong amongst the trees and grass and the sunlight."

"I have all the time in the world, Maester Aemon," said Elena. "You and Lord Mormont have been so good to me. To be honest…I'm afraid of what I'll find out there, down south."

"A much more pleasant climate, for a start," said the old man. "You cannot stay here forever. This…it is not for you." He placed a gentle hand on her arm. "You were meant for greater things, Elena. Don't squander your gifts."

* * *

The air had gotten a little chillier. Winter was coming, as it had been for the last seventeen years of Robb's life. He was a Stark. Winter was always coming. To be honest, right now, he was a little more concerned about the beast that lurked in the woods outside Winterfell. He _still _didn't believe in vampires, of course, but like Jon had said, there was no harm in carrying around some garlic just in case they _were_ real. He hadn't enjoyed being bitten.

It had been humiliating.

Frost was beginning to form on the dark-leafed ferns that carpeted the forest floor. Their horses' hooves sounded dully on the frozen mud. He examined every tree, every twig, determined to find any sign of the beast.

"Why are you so sure it's going to be in this part of the woods?" asked Damon.

"Because I was attacked not two miles from here," said Robb. "Stark blood does not spill for free."

"Yeah, but it's probably long gone by now, my lord. Have you noticed? It tends to move around a little bit."

"Predators often haunt familiar territory," said Robb. No, nothing. The only broken twigs had been broken by them.

"A nice choice of words, particularly considering the nature of the beast we're hunting."

"It's not an undead vampire, Damon," said Robb. "Corpses do not rise from the dead." Still, he discreetly patted his pocket where the garlic lay. He would have to go about investing in some silver stakes too. It couldn't possibly hurt much, except his money pouch. But he had more than enough silver and nothing much to spend it on.

"I don't know, Robb," said Jon dubiously.

"Dracula is a tale Damon made up to scare Arya and Bran and Rickon," said Robb. "I think you're a little too old for such things, Jon."

"Yeah, I kind of did make it up," said Damon with a smug grin. "But that's not to say there aren't any vampires. Every good tale is based on truth."

"And what did you base yours on?" asked Jon.

"Something else that I heard somewhere down south east," said Damon with a shrug, leaving Jon a sceptical believer of vampires and Robb a disbelieving roller of eyes.

Theon chose to hang back and not get involved. Ever since Salvatore's arrival in Winterfell, all his exploits had been overshadowed. In the past, Robb had always been the better fighter and diplomat, and Jon had been known to _occasionally _make poignant observations. But Theon had always had his sexual prowess and knowledge to fall back upon.

Now Damon was the conqueror of women's hearts and beds, and he did it all without paying them, leaving the young Greyjoy with no specialty to call his own. The younger noblemen in Winterfell had, in pre-Salvatore times, gone to Theon for advice on all matters to do with women. They now turned to Damon with a kind of awe reserved for men who forged their own path in the barren terrain against all expectation. Not that _Robb _had ever gone to Damon for advice on anything. He was the lord's son. It all came to him quite naturally. The problem was sifting through the women who were interested in the heir to Winterfell, and the women who were interested in Robb.

"Shhh…" Damon suddenly halted. "Listen."

"What?" said Robb, who heard nothing, not even a bird. "Is it the beast?"

"Depends on what kind of beast you're thinking," said Damon. He dismounted and carefully pushed his way through the underbrush. The frost melted and left wet trails on his breeches. Robb followed him, sword drawn, not wanting to be ambushed yet again.

Then he heard it too; high pitched whining, like the sound of mewling babies.

They pushed on, following the sound until they came to a particularly dense patch of vegetation which something had burrowed through. The rigid corpse of the largest wolf Robb had ever beheld lay on its side. It was too cold for flies, but the rats had begun their work in the night. A brokenarrow shaft protruded from the animals' side, and the fur around it was matted with dark blood.

The whining and snuffling was quite loud now, and it was coming from within the burrow. Robb looked back at Jon. They did not need to say anything to one another.

"You know, I know more about wolves than most people, and I really don't recommend−"

Neither of them listened to Damon. Robb pushed aside the wet bracken at the opening. A pair of yellow eyes stared back at him. And then another pair. And another.

"Dire wolves south of the Wall," breathed Theon. "How is this possible?"

"They, you know, like, walked?" said Damon.

Theon looked as if he were about to punch the dark haired soldier, but then thought better of it. One did not simply punch the man who beat everyone else in sparring. Robb ignored them and proceeded to reach inside the burrow. It wasn't the smartest thing he could have done. Little wolves had teeth too. But he was curious. He had never seen a dire wolf before, and certainly not wolf pups.

"Do you think they'd make a nice scarf for Lady Sansa?" asked Damon. That was _definitely_ to be ignored. Although Robb could use a new fur collar for his cloak. But no. Wolves did not wear wolves. That was simply wrong.

The pups were cold and hungry. He pulled two out and handed them, squirming and protesting, to Theon. Another three were deposited into a protesting Damon's arms. The largest grey one, clearly the leader of this small pack, growled at him. Robb immediately took a liking to that one.

"What are we going to do with them?" asked Theon.

"Take them back to Winterfell, I suppose," said Jon. "It's fitting. Wolves for Starks, and there's one for each of the Stark children."

"I hope that big wolf isn't symbolic," said Damon, looking at the carcass. He only shrugged when Robb glared at him.

He motioned to the others to follow him. There was no point in hunting for the beast anymore this day. It wasn't as if they _could_ track anything very well –and that was being optimistic since they had found no sign of the creature and he was pretty sure it hadn't been a dire wolf− while carrying five wolf cubs.

Jon lingered by the burrow, examining the carcass of the mother. And then he reached into some ferns by the burrow and drew out one last pup, smaller than the others, and white as snow.

"That's the runt of the litter," said Theon with a grin. "That's yours."

Then he swore.

Little wolves had…calls of nature too.

* * *

A/N: And so we see the arrival of the dire wolves. We're trying to move them along towards the events of the show, but Damon does seem to love creating trouble and slowing things down. We've messed with the timeline a little bit here, you will have noticed.

Thanks to everyone who's reviewed, favourited, or added this story to their alerts!


	4. The King and I

**Disclaimer:** We don't own anything. Robb, Jon, etc. remain the property of Mr Martin and Damon, Bonnie, Katherine, and their supernatural friends are creations of LJ Smith and Julie Plec.

**Chapter 4: The King and I**

Damon had never met a king before. He'd been born in an age when they'd guillotined kings and started calling each other 'citoyen'. But Kath−he'd heard other vampires talk about eating kings, and apparently, they made for very good eating.

Now that he was witnessing a royal procession in person, it was hard to blame the French for guillotining all the aristocrats. Standing in the cold for what seemed like hours on end with nothing to do was not his favourite pastime. In fact, it made him positively hungry; perhaps he could go invite the King for a 'meal' later on. After all, Damon Salvatore never missed the opportunity to try something new. Then again, he supposed his new employer wouldn't really appreciate it, and there were limits to even what he would risk. There was leaving breadcrumbs, and then there was throwing whole loaves of bread out to a starving mob.

Not that they had any clue what his breadcrumbs actually meant. It was hilarious watching Jon carefully add garlic to everything he ate. But, to keep up the act, Damon refrained from biting him. He probably wouldn't taste as good as Robb anyway, for his diet was poorer than the other Starks, and he simply lacked a sense of humour.

The wheels of the grand carriage clattered on Winterfell's flagstones. The polished ebony was gilt with golden leaves and flowers. Curtains veiled the occupants within. A woman's hand, adorned with many fine rings, lifted the curtain and Damon caught a glimpse of a beautiful golden-haired woman, not quite middle-aged, but not quite young either. She had to be Cersei Lannister. Or Baratheon. Probably Baratheon now, since she'd married Robert Baratheon. Lady Catelyn had taken her husband's family name so why not the queen?

As for the king himself, he rode behind the carriage upon a black stallion. Robert Baratheon was hard to miss. As a shooting target, rather. His girth was as wide as his horse's chest and his crown fit him ill. His face was ruddy from exertion, as if he were about to burst a vein or clot an artery. Or both. All of a sudden, not being able to taste this king didn't seem like such a loss. Damon wagered he would be a burger to Robb's filet mignon. All that grease? Not a fan.

Everyone knelt when Robert appeared. Damon wondered if he could ever get himself into a position where all worshipped him, as things ought to be. He'd probably have to conquer a kingdom first, and _that_ took far too much paperwork. And dedication. He'd get bored.

To be quite honest, Robert wasn't quite as obese as some people back home. He, at least, was capable of walking by himself, and when he died, they probably wouldn't need a crane to lift off the roof to remove his body. The lack of peanut butter and chocolate ice cream milkshakes probably helped.

The king slowly approached Ned Stark with what he probably considered a firm stately step. It wasn't _quite_ a waddle, but it was getting close.

Robert stopped in front of the kneeling lord of Winterfell and bid him rise with a gloved hand.

Ned slowly rose. Neither man spoke. There were no smiles, no sounds. It was like watching two old dogs trying to decide whether they had enough energy to fight.

"You've grown fat," said Robert.

The tension broke as the two men began laughing and embraced each other. It wasn't until later that Damon found out they were old friends from way back when Robert was a normal sized human being not at risk of heart disease and type two diabetes.

* * *

It was all hands on deck, as they would probably say where Theon came from. Not that anyone in Winterfell would understand references to ships and things. Even though she was Arya's companion, Bonnie had been roped into helping with tonight's feast to celebrate the king's arrival, although her biggest task yet lay before her.

Robert, of course, had brought gifts for Lord Stark and his family. Unfortunately, his gift to Arya consisted on a lemon-coloured monstrosity with a full skirt and fluffy white lace cuffs on the sleeves and at the neck, and it would be rude of Arya not to wear it to the feast. Bonnie still had not figured out how to persuade her to wear it. If they'd had to swap places, the witch would have burned it. With magical fire so it couldn't resurrect.

A film of sweat covered her face and she was getting a rather effective, if a little sticky and eggy facial, as she leaned over to stir the custard. Making dessert for seven people was one thing. Making dessert for seventy was another thing entirely. Sometimes, her magic ban became really inconvenient. Also, custard in her world came in packets. You just had to add water and eggs. Her pores were definitely going to be open by the end of it, and if they had mud masks in Winterfell, she would have had baby smooth skin.

"Hello Bonnie," said a voice behind her, startling her so much that she almost blasted him back. Luckily, she didn't because it was Theon, who was trying his best to copy Damon. It was kind of cute, in a sad way. He hadn't figured out the key to the Damon-effect yet. Theon cared too much about how people thought of him. Damon just didn't give a damn. Unless other people's names started with 'E' and ended with 'lena'.

"You scared me, Lord Theon! I almost dunked your head in the custard!"

"That would make it squid-flavoured," remarked Damon, coming in behind Theon. Goddess! Did he have to be here? It seemed he was omnipotent and omnipresent half the time! No trouble in Winterfell happened without him knowing about it. Granted, ninety-nine per cent of trouble in Winterfell was caused by him, either directly or indirectly. Why, she'd caught Jon trying to stick garlic under everyone's beds, convinced that it was going to save them from potential vampire attacks. She'd let him, in the end. He was a sort-of lord, after all, and garlic wasn't going to do any harm, even if it couldn't do any good. Besides, if winter came, and it would most definitely come, according to the Starks, they would have an extra garlic supply to flavour the food.

And yes, he had almost been funny in his earnestness except Jon Snow was not to be laughed at under any circumstances whatsoever.

"Don't you have anything better to do?" she demanded of Damon. Theon she could excuse.

"Not really," said Damon. "I can hardly engage in beast hunting with the king present, lest the queen and the young princes and princess be alarmed by the presence of a mysterious predator lurking just outside the walls."

Bonnie prayed to the goddess that whenever Damon went out in search of a snack, he would be discreet. The last thing anyone needed was for the entire imperial army –royal army?− to descend upon Winterfell to become the next Van Helsing. That would certainly make life difficult.

"And Robb and Jon are waiting for the arrival of their uncle from Castle Black," said Theon, trying to use a wooden spoon to steal some custard. Bonnie batted him away, but slipped a meat tart into his hand. He grinned at her. "I knew there was a reason I liked you so much."

"Where's my tart?" demanded Damon. He licked crumbs from his fingers, having already stolen a couple. Tucked discreetly amongst the folds of his robes was a bottle of very fine vintage. Now, Bonnie didn't understand wine. She drank it, and she liked it, but she couldn't really tell a good vintage from a bad one. However, judging by the dusty wax seal, Lord Stark had obviously kept these well hidden in case of special occasions.

"Get out before the head cook realizes," she whispered to them.

"I always knew you'd take care of me, Bonnie," said Theon with a wink as he bit into his steaming meat tart. Bonnie smiled as she heard his sharp intake of breath when he burned his tongue, but she did not glance back at him, knowing he would already be fleeing down the hall with Damon to evade the head cook, who, while a servant, inspired fear and awe in almost everyone. She, after all, had full say over what was on the menu. Lady Stark hardly ever made requests, although this was one special occasion that she did, and Lord Stark was usually happy with whatever ended up on the table.

The custard was finally done and even. No mean feat in a medieval world. Bonnie wiped her hands on her apron. The hardest task was yet before her.

Just how was she going to convince Arya to dress up as a lemon meringue pie?

* * *

Winterfell looked the way it always had. Strong walls, not fancy, but they did what they were supposed to do. No one recognized him as he rode through the streets which he had wandered through so many years ago as a boy, occasionally stealing apples and chasing pigeons with Ned and Brandon. They still looked the same, but he had changed. Even though he would always remember it fondly, this was no longer his home.

"Uncle Benjen!" The boy's voice pulled him from his reverie. Bran ran towards him, eyes bright and face red from the biting winds. The boy's hair was tousled as if he had been running around outside for a while even though he was in a dress tunic with a wolf embroidered on the chest.

Benjen dismounted and caught him up. "You grow any bigger, Bran, and I won't be able to do this anymore," he said with a grunt. Had it really been so long? It had seemed like yesterday that he had been the same age and size. Well, perhaps he had been a little taller. Bran had inherited Catelyn's stature.

"I saw you coming from a mile off," said Bran. "The others are waiting in the courtyard."

Benjen lifted the boy into the saddle and swung back in behind him. The other children were indeed waiting in the courtyard. Robb and Jon had idly taken up teaching Arya to shoot arrows to pass the time while Rickon watched and clamoured to have a go. The girl hit the bull's eye nine times out of ten. They, however, abandoned their bows and arrows as they rushed to greet him, with Jon hanging back slightly, as he usually did.

"Father will be very glad to see you," said Robb. And Ned was, in his own way. His brother had never been one to express much outwardly, but he embraced Benjen and immediately ordered the servants to bring out hot food and wine, for which the ranger was glad. After all the 'stew' he had had on the wall and the tough-as-leather oatcakes that Elena Gilbert made, he was more than ready for some proper fare, even if it was just meat and potatoes.

* * *

Ned was always glad to welcome his brother back to Winterfell. To be honest, he was quite worried about the situation at the Wall, what with that Night's Watch deserter having his throat torn out and now the mysterious blood drinking beast prowling about his city. He planned to use his influence over Robert to persuade him to send more men to the Wall. Not that he believed in grumpkins and snarks, but it did not hurt to be prepared.

As Benjen ate, Ned told him of the happenings in Winterfell. Farmers had feuds and lords squabbled over land. Oh, and of course the beast. Benjen paused in the middle of spooning potatoes into his mouth.

"A blood drinking beast, you say?" he asked.

"It certainly seems like it," said Ned. "Robb was bitten−he's fine now, as you can see. The beast has never killed. Arya is convinced it is a vampire and insists on putting garlic by her door."

He chuckled. Children were so susceptible to tall tales, particularly ones told by charming mercenaries with boundless imagination. Cat had had to tell Damon to stop telling Rickon these stories because he refused to go to sleep at night now, convinced there was something terrible hiding under the bed. No matter how many times Robb or Jon or Bran or anyone else poked swords beneath it to prove there was nothing except dust and a few old shoes, he would not be swayed.

"Arya might be right," said Benjen. "There are strange things in the world, Ned; stranger than you think. The Others have been sighted beyond the Wall, and besides the Others, there are…others."

It was Ned's turn to raise an eyebrow. "Others and Others? What other Others can there be?"

"Just be careful, Ned. You never know what might happen."

* * *

"No!"

Arya stared in horror at the…the…she had no words for it. Why did she have to wear this?!

The dress was neatly laid out on the bed, its ruffled yellow skirt threatening to swallow everything that came close. Nymeria growled.

"It's the latest fashion in King's Landing, milady," said Bonnie. She didn't sound as if she thought much of King's Landing fashions, which made Arya like her more. Then again, she was trying to force her into the monstrosity, so she wasn't feeling too benevolent towards her maid right now.

"It's got ruffles! And lace!"

"It has got everything, milady," said Bonnie.

"Why do I have to wear this? Bran doesn't have to wear anything like it. Neither does Rickon, or Robb, or Jon, not even Sansa!"

"With all due respect, milady, but I don't think anyone would want to see Lords Bran, Rickon, Robb, or Jon dressed as such."

Arya couldn't help but giggle at the image. Oh, if _only_ she could somehow get her brothers to dress up like this, particularly Robb! Now _that_ would be something worth seeing.

"Do I have to?" she asked.

"Lady Stark said it is a gift from the King, and it would only be polite for you to wear it to the feast held in his honour," said Bonnie, lifting the dress off the bed and holding it out. "I think only the bravest person would dare to wear such a colour."

"I suppose I have no choice," sighed Arya. "All right, you can put it on me, but I don't want to look in the mirror."

The lace was scratchy, and the full skirt tangled up her legs, making it hard to run or walk, or even move. From the bed, her wolf Nymeria cocked her head as if she were also questioning the king's taste in fashion. The youngest daughter of House Stark had to take a deep breath and remind herself of her proud lineage before she stepped out the door.

Sansa was going to _love_ this.

* * *

For the love of everything holy and unholy, someone had to stop that hurdy gurdy! It was giving him a headache with the wailing, grating strains that passed for music. Damon downed more wine, hoping the alcohol would numb the pain. It didn't. How he longed for some proper jazz, or maybe the Beatles. Hell, he'd even take _Mozart_ right now. Some damned violin sonata was better than this. All right, perhaps he was exaggerating a little, and a hurdy gurdy wasn't the worst instrument he'd ever heard. The Chinese lyre could take that honour. But it was definitely an acquired taste, and the Starks definitely needed lessons on how to throw a good party.

At the front, Robert was bored enough to kiss a serving girl full on the lips while his wife watched on, her expression as flat as the beer that was being served to the soldiers down the very other end of the hall.

Apart from a brief moment at the beginning of the feast, where he had announced the betrothal of Sansa to Joffrey –it seemed like a terrible idea to Damon, betrothing teenagers to one another, but that was the way they did things in these parts, he supposed− Robert had not been sober the entire evening. More wine went to the king's table than anywhere else. He had tried to grope Bonnie, who was helping with the serving tonight, until Catelyn had executed a timely save and distracted the king long enough for the witch to escape.

Damon poured himself some sour wine from a metal jug. It was almost abrasive to the taste, but it was better than flat beer. If Ned thought this was a party, then what was a Stark funeral like? Well, at least he wasn't _working_ the party, like some unfortunate people were.

"Hey, Bonnie," he whispered as Bonnie passed him by, carrying an empty jug that needed refilling. "Do you think you can get me something better than this?" He indicated his cup.

"_You_ have already had too much," she said. Obviously _someone_ needed a drink more than he did. She retreated back to the kitchen where further supplies were waiting to be brought out.

"She is exquisite," said Theon. Damon had been so busy lamenting the lack of good alcohol that he hadn't even noticed the Ironborn coming up behind him.

"What are you doing down this end of the hall with the rest of us rabble, Lord Theon?" asked Damon.

"Can I not visit a friend?"

"You have _friends_?"

Theon scowled at him. "You know, Robb's right. I'm surprised we haven't killed you in your sleep already."

"Like I said before, you're not capable of it."

A few girls passed by, dressed in their finest with tiny white flowers woven into their hair. There weren't a lot of flowers available in the vicinity of Winterfell. The most abundant form of vegetation was brambles, and unless one wanted to play Jesus in an Easter pageant, a crown of thorns wasn't the most attractive look.

Two of the girls, walking arm in arm, passed Theon and Damon. They smiled at the two men in a way that beckoned to them, saying, 'Come hither.' A year ago, Damon would not have said no, but in situations like these, he particularly remembered how long Elena would take to dress up, putting her hair in a ridiculous beehive style for the sixties' dance, and applying fake blood for Halloween.

And he missed her.

It wasn't that he had remained entirely faithful and sexless during his stay in Winterfell, but they had been mere dalliances with the girls at the brothel, who were very happy with the fat purse of coins he left with them afterwards. It was business, straight and simple. These girls…they were different. He recognized them as being the daughters of Ned's bannermen's knights. He couldn't remember what their names were, but he knew they weren't the sort of working girl he could go and…erm…see and then pay and forget about. They expected emotional attachment. He did _not _want any emotions involved on either side.

"What are you waiting for, Damon?" asked Theon. "Those girls clearly want to be chased, and you, my friend, are a _hunter_."

"Sorry, buddy. I'm accounted for."

"Wait, you have a woman? And you did not say _anything_?"

Perhaps the wine was stronger than he'd thought it was. And it had kind of grown on him too. Perhaps he simply missed Elena and his old life. "First, why would I? Secondly, Elena does not belong to me or anybody else."

"So her name is _Elena_, is it?" asked Theon, forgetting about girls with flowers in their hair. The men edged their chairs closer, all keen for a bit of juicy gossip. Seriously, they were worse than desperate housewives. "Now we really need to know."

* * *

Arya toyed with the peas on her plate, pushing them to one side, and then back across again. They had long since gone cold. She didn't really like peas. All around her, people were laughing, and Sansa, in particular, was giggling more than usual as she snuck glances at Joffrey Baratheon.

"He's so handsome," the older Stark girl whispered to her friend Jeyne Poole.

"He looks like a girl," Arya muttered under her breath. It was true! The prince's face was smooth, and his golden hair flopped over his eyes. If she had to pick the handsomest man in the room, she most definitely wouldn't have picked him. She didn't actually know who she would pick yet. Probably the Kingslayer in his shining armour. She really really wanted a sword like his one day.

"I think Lord Robb is looking very handsome tonight," ventured Jeyne Poole. Unfortunately, Robb was too enthralled by the tragic tale of Damon and Elena which Theon was forcing out of the former. Otherwise, if he had heard Jeyne, how embarrassing would _that_ have been for both of them? At least it would have been interesting for Arya.

"I will admit he is not completely hideous," said Sansa, "but he is _not_ handsome, Jeyne. Damon, on the other hand, is." And on and on, they continued to compare men, discussing who was handsome and who was not, and who had the best dress –obviously not Arya. The youngest Stark girl almost felt nauseous from the inane babble.

Down the other end of the hall, the servants seemed to be having a much better time. The soldiers had gotten drunk and had become rowdy, and some of them had begun dancing with the serving maids. She fidgeted in her seat, wishing she could go and play with Nymeria or practise archery. She'd even settle for going to bed.

Her new dress rustled as she moved, and Sansa turned to frown at her for behaving inappropriately, and then she smirked. Her sister had been smirking at her all evening ever since she'd seen the hideous dress. Even serious Jon had had to bite his lip. Arya had not seen what she looked like in it, and she did not want to. Ever.

There was something in Sansa's smirk that always made her blood boiled. She hated how self-righteous she was, how proper she was, and how everyone always seemed to love her best even though she was mean and she lied. All the time. And no one cared because she was pretty and proper and a lady.

Sansa returned to giving Joffrey shy sly glances and whispering to Jeyne about him. Having nothing better to do, Arya looked back down at her plate at the uneaten peas. They were round and some of them were quite hard because they had not been cooked properly, just like miniature rocks, actually…

Her slingshot was cleverly hidden in the folds of her hideous ruffled skirt. She pulled it out and took aim. The green projectiles flew in a perfect arc across the dinner table, just as Arya intended them to. She watched them leave the sling, and watched them descend…

…right down the front of Sansa's dress. All right, she hadn't meant for them to go _quite_ that far.

Sansa gasped in shock and anger, while Jeyne Poole's eyes widened. As did Bran's. Sansa stood up so abruptly that her chair toppled backwards. Her face was pale, save for two red spots on her cheeks –Arya thought they clashed badly with her hair, which everyone said was red but was actually carroty. "How could you, Arya?" she asked, her voice full of hurt and humiliation. "Why do you always have to ruin things?"

A hush fell in the entire hall as everyone craned their necks to see what was going on. The Imp quietly sipped his wine and gave Arya a knowing look, as if he knew exactly why she did what she did. And…he almost seemed to approve?

"What is going on, Sansa? Arya?" asked Catelyn.

"She threw food at me, Mother," Sansa kept her voice muted and 'dignified', but her words were clear enough for everyone to hear them.

"Peas," elaborated Bran in a loud whisper. "They went down her…" He helpfully pointed down the front of his own tunic. Traitor.

Arya saw her mother striving to control her temper. When she was angry, she would press her lips together tightly in disapproval in a way that made even Robb afraid because she so seldom did it. At least, not with them.

"Is this true, Arya?" she asked calmly.

Arya bit her lip. Perhaps it had not been one of her best ideas. But…but…it was Sansa! Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her father looking at her, his face stern and hard. She nodded. "It's true," she said. "But I didn't mean for the peas to go where they did."

Catelyn sighed. "You need to apologize to your sister, Arya."

Yes, that was the worst part. Sansa never properly accepted apologies, particularly not from her, and Arya hated to admit that she'd lost to her sister. Again. And that little smirk that Sansa would have while Arya muttered her apology…she just wanted to…wanted to…oh, she knew _perfectly_ well what she wanted to do with Sansa and her smirk. It was just that she'd always been too scared to do it, and somehow, even though she _hated_ her, as in really really really hated her, Sansa was still her sister, and one could not do such things to one's siblings. It wasn't right.

Beneath the table, Bran tugged at her sleeve. No one was on her side in this one. "I'm sorry," she muttered, looking down at her now empty plate. She kicked the heavy wooden table leg, wishing people would just stop looking at her and mind their own business. No, that was never going to happen.

Sansa gave her a disdainful look, but nodded. "I accept your apology," she said, not meaning a word of it. "Mother, may I be excused from the table? I need to change my dress."

"Of course," said Catelyn.

After Sansa left, Arya told Catelyn she did not feel well, and wished to go to bed. Catelyn knew exactly knew why her younger daughter was not feeling well, but she let her go without a word.

Once she was out of the noisy, hot hall, she began to run through the stone corridors lit only with smoky torches, not caring that she was tripping over the skirts of her hideous yellow dress and not really knowing where she was going. She just wanted to get away from them all.

"Arya!" She heard footsteps behind her, but she kept running anyway. She didn't want to talk to anyone. Not her brothers, not her parents…

Jon caught up to her in a few steps. The long ruffled skirts didn't exactly lend her speed, and he had much longer legs. In the flickering firelight, his eyes seemed like pools of darkness, but even so, she saw his sympathy.

"If you're going to tell me how I shouldn't have thrown peas at Sansa, don't," she said.

"I wasn't," said Jon. "I just wanted to give you something."

He presented a long package wrapped in oil cloth to her. Arya took it curiously, wondering what it could be. She unwrapped it to reveal the pommel of a very light sword, beautifully crafted, and just her size. The blade was thin and bendy, but not so bendy that it couldn't do damage. On the contrary, in fact, it was very very sharp.

"I had the blacksmith make it for you especially," he said with a small smile. "Do you like it?"

Arya flung her arms around Jon, never more grateful to him as she was now. "It's the best present I've ever had," she said as she buried her face in the front of his tunic. He smelled of horse and sweat and leather polish. "I love you, Jon."

"I love you too," said Jon, patting her back.

"I'm going to call it Needle. Will you teach me to use it?" she asked when she released him. "Maybe we can go hunt for the vampire together. Can you imagine it? Arya Stark, vampire hunter."

Jon laughed. "Go to bed, Arya. I'll think about it."

* * *

A/N: Not counting Benjen, who has an unfair advantage on the vampire front because of Elena, Arya might just be the most clued in as to what's been going on because she's young enough to allow herself to believe in illogical things like vampires. I have so much fun writing her point of view.

Note added 22 June, 2013: Some people feel that we have been bashing Sansa and at times it may feel that way. But it's important to remember that whenever Arya is talking about Sansa, she's talking about Sansa from her own point of view so obviously she is always justified in her mind. If we were to look at things from Joffrey's point of view, _he_ would think he's completely justified too.


	5. Fight Club

**Disclaimer:** We don't own anything. Robb, Jon, etc. remain the property of Mr Martin and Damon, Bonnie, Katherine, and their supernatural friends are creations of LJ Smith and Julie Plec.

**Chapter 5: Fight Club**

Arya had launched her projectiles at the most opportune moment possible. That little interruption distracted Theon from his onerous line of questioning about Elena and Damon's relationship. It had gone to the point where Damon missed Facebook. On Facebook, all he'd have to do was put 'it's complicated', and people would know not to ask or else he'd just block them. Also, Theon would have soon been too distracted by Angry Birds or harvesting peas on Farmville to continue interrogating him.

But here, in Winterfell, the peas had had to fall down Sansa's top to halt the Ironborn Inquisition.

The men had been hounding him for details, and because he wasn't giving them any, beyond the fact that yes, there was a girl called Elena whom he really cared about and yes, they were separated and now he didn't know where she was or what had happened to her, they were now making up their own version.

"You wouldn't have been the first nobleman to be exiled and reduced to a sell-sword after chasing the wrong piece of skirt," said Theon with a grin as he clapped Damon on the back. That could _not_ have been further from the truth, but Damon wasn't about to indulge their need for gossip by correcting the Greyjoy hostage.

"Do you miss her?" Robb suddenly asked.

Really? Did Robb Stark have to get involved? He would have loved to tell him that yes, he did miss her, and he should just shut the fuck up about her because rubbing it in wasn't making it feel any better.

But one could not tell the son of one's liege lord to shut the fuck up, so Damon settled for a curt nod instead and hoped Robb would get it.

Much to his credit, Robb understood, and when Theon opened his mouth to pour out more questions, the young Stark gave him one of those wintry stares of his. In land-locked Winterfell, wolves were much more powerful than squid rings.

"Let's have some music," said Damon. The men _needed_ something else to focus on other than the great and non-existent scandal of the sell-sword and the lady. He did not fancy being blindsided by questions in the days to come. "I mean some _proper_ music. This is putting me to sleep."

"Damon −" began Robb, but he was already off speaking with the conductor before commandeering one of the fiddles. He'd played the fiddle in his early youth as a confederate soldier. Music choices had been terribly limited back then, particularly when one had been a soldier on the losing side. Later, he'd learned the violin. They were hardly his favourite instruments, but in the absence of a piano or an electric guitar, this would have to do. It was better than the cantankerous hurdy gurdy. He tweaked some of the pegs to tune the instrument and tried out a few notes.

* * *

Robb supposed there could have been a worse song for Damon to play, but on seeing King Robert's wistful expression and Queen Cersei's ice cold demeanour he supposed there were very few worse songs.

Damon's voice was not that of a troubadour's, but there was a certain quality to it; an edge, if one could call it that, like a steel blade beneath velvet. He sang of a doomed love story, where a boy fell in love with a dying girl and was overwhelmed with grief at her passing. What had possessed him to sing of such a thing, and at a feast, no less? Robb did not consider himself sentimental, but there was something very tragic about this whole thing, and he had to wonder. Did Damon lose Elena like that? Had he met her, knowing she would die, but loved her anyway?

But then, all love was like that. They were all mortal, and anyone who fell in love did so knowing that the one they loved would one day wither and die. It was simply a matter of how long and who would die first.

Some of the ladies seemed as mesmerized by the musician as much as by the song. Sansa, having returned with a new dress, this one in mint green, sat staring at Damon, her eyes luminous and shining, as if she were drinking in the sight of him. His sister was smitten, and just about all of Winterfell knew it. Whether Damon could return her affections was another matter entirely. It made Robb feel better about the whole situation. He liked the man at arms well enough, but he would never _ever_ let a man like that near his sister, and he pitied poor Elena who'd had the ill-judgement to get involved with him.

* * *

The night was clear. Jon took in a deep breath, smelling hay and smoke and horse manure along with the slight taint of cured leather. A crescent moon hung above him, illuminating the clouds of exhalation. If Arya loathed such feasts, then he hated them even more. The strains of music and the sound of merrymaking floated through the night to mingle with the contented snorts of horses nosing at their feed. He went to where his horse was tethered. The animal's ears flicked forward when he recognized the sound of his footsteps.

Jon pulled out two carrots he had pilfered from the kitchens when no one had been looking. "Here you go, old chap," he said. He fed one to the greedy horse before biting into the other one and leaned against the wooden post, looking up at the sky.

"Shouldn't you be inside with the other young people?" came Benjen's voice as he emerged from the shadows of the archway that led toward the main hall.

"Shouldn't you be inside with the other old people?" asked Jon.

Benjen chuckled. "Fair enough," he said. "To be truthful with you, I find myself fearing inane small talk with people I neither know nor like. But you, you are young, and there is dancing inside."

"Lady Catelyn didn't want me there. She thought the royals would be offended by a bastard sitting in their midst. Besides, I don't dance." It wasn't entirely true. Robb had taught him how to dance in private, and if he needed to dance because his life somehow depended on it, he could do it decently enough. But no one ever asked him to dance. The noblewomen thought him too lowly, and the servant girls were too afraid of him. He didn't fancy sitting in a corner watching all the others. "Uncle Benjen, when you leave, can I go north with you?"

"Now, why would you want that?" asked Benjen. He removed a flask from his hip and took a swig from it.

"I want to take the black. You know I want to."

Ever since Jon had learned of the Night's Watch and the work they did on the Wall, protecting Westeros from whatever dangers lay beyond it, he had wanted to become a brother; to make something of himself. He was a bastard and he served no purpose save to remind Lady Catelyn of his father's unfaithfulness. The Wall would be different.

"Maybe next time," said Benjen.

"You have said that every time."

"You're young, Jon. You're not ready. Live a little before you throw your life away and dedicate it to the icy wastes. Fall in love, find a woman, sire a few bastards of your own. And then, if you still want to take the black, I'll take you then."

"I'm ready, uncle," Jon insisted. "And I will never sire any bastards." He would never condemn a child to such a life as he had had; to be an outcast amongst his own kin, to weather cold stares from your father's wife, to be treated as lesser than everyone else. Catelyn hadn't even allowed him to sit in on Robb's lessons, fearing that if he could read or write, he would one day pose a threat to Robb.

Benjen gave him a knowing smile. "We'll see," he said.

* * *

The boy's earnest face reminded Benjen of himself when he had first decided to go north to join the Night's Watch. Oh, he still believed in what they did, in theory, but reality was very different from what Jon thought it was. He had not the heart to tell the boy the truth. Ever since his nephews had been very small, Benjen had told them valiant tales of the brothers' feats. Most of them had been embellished beyond recognition.

"Your father tells me you and Robb have been trying to hunt down a strange beast that has been attacking villagers around Winterfell," he said to change the subject.

"It bit Robb," said Jon. "Do you think it could have come from beyond the Wall?"

More like some strange land beyond the spheres of this realm. One part of Benjen wanted to tell Jon about the most recent addition to the Brotherhood. But he had sworn to keep her a secret.

"It could have been anything," said Benjen.

"Arya and Bran believe it's a vampire –that's a blood-drinking animated corpse, if there _is_ such a thing."

"What do you believe?"

"I don't know what I believe anymore."

* * *

With the king in Winterfell, life took on a new turn. Not only were there several more mouths to feed, but all of a sudden, Damon found himself actually needing to practise decorum lest some ill-tempered royal, also known as Joffrey Baratheon, decided to take his head.

Robb, being of an age with the prince, was frequently expected to keep him company. And since Damon had been 'relieved' of his duties under Ser Sigimund, he'd been expected to keep Robb company and guard him from visitors of an unsavoury nature. Not also known as Joffrey Baratheon.

Robert had brought with him the Kings Guard; guardsmen so unlike the ones in Winterfell they might as well have been from another planet. They wore golden armour, and had as much a sense of humour as Jon. Except, of course, Jaime Lannister.

"You know, they call him the Kingslayer," Robb had mentioned to him once. Damon didn't think he warranted such a title. He'd killed _one_ king. If killing one of something warranted a title, then he, Damon Salvatore, ought to be known as Hybrid Slayer or perhaps Vanquisher of Originals.

The unknown and unquantified 'they' also said Jaime Lannister was the best swordsman in all of Westeros. That, Damon was sorely tempted to prove. Or disprove, rather.

With a lack of suitable entertainment in Winterfell, the boys often spent their time in the practise yards and the girls…well, the girls did what girls did. Frankly, sewing kits were no good unless one could use the needles to practise acupuncture. But he doubted Lady Stark would appreciate his creativity when it came to needles. She already disapproved of Robb's association with him.

Watching Joffrey and Robb spar was, however, one of the more entertaining things Damon had seen or done since he'd bitten the latter. They were ill-matched, with Robb being a far superior swordsman. Neither of them were good losers, so Robb was hardly going to go easy on Joffrey just because he was a prince. After all, he was a little lordling himself; if not equal in rank, they were at least quite close in status.

Joffrey's practise sword flew from his hand into the mud and Robb pointed his sword at the prince's throat for the third time that day. It was hard to get tired of watching that, with Robb's hint of a smirk –he made quite a good disciple, that one, and Damon was quite proud of him− and Joffrey's barely veiled rage.

"This isn't fun," he said. "Only children play with wooden swords. Real men fight with steel."

"That can be arranged, Your Highness," said Robb.

"Live steel is too dangerous, Your Highness, milord," said Ser Rodrik who could spot a disaster in the making when it was right in front of his eyes. Sooner or later, Robb and Joffrey were bound to clash, and if Damon had to bet on someone, he would put his money on Robb every time.

And then he would discreetly make sure that he won, of course.

"What do you know about it?" snapped Joffrey. "Bring me my sword! Let's see how a Stark holds up against steel."

"Done," said Robb, who had been wanting to beat Joffrey yet again.

"I will allow blunted tourney swords, and that is it," said Ser Rodrik.

"Are you training women here, Ser Rodrik?" called out Joffrey's sworn shield, also known as a glorified babysitter. Half the man's face had been burned off. Damon supposed his face couldn't have looked much better beforehand anyway. He tried to hide the burns with his scraggly bits of hair, but it didn't work.

"I am training knights, ser" replied Cassel coldly. He kept his voice under well-maintained control, but it was as hard as sharpened steel.

"I killed my first man at twelve," said the Hound with a sneer. "How old is this one?" He pointed his chin at Robb. "Fourteen?"

"Seventeen," said Robb. If looks could kill, he would have finished off what the fire had started. "I would be more than happy to oblige his highness, Ser Sandor."

"Your Highness." The men all looked up as the Kingslayer himself approached the practise yard, armour gleaming and golden head bared in the sun. He cut an impressive figure, to be sure, and even though his voice was not loud, it held a hard warning edge. "It would not be the best idea. Perhaps some other time, when you are older."

Joffrey scowled. However, perhaps it was because Jaime was his uncle, or because he actually respected the Kingslayer, he did not offer any rebuttal or resistance. "This is stupid anyway," he said. "One day, I will be king, and you will bend your knee to me, Stark."

"Until then, Your _Highness_," said Robb. Joffrey stormed off, no doubt to find some other way to amuse himself. Some poor innocent puppy was going to suffer. The men watched him go, too intimidated to utter a word. Robb continued to glare at Joffrey's retreating back as if he would like nothing more than to plant his wooden sword right between his shoulder blades. Damon would have advised him to veer slightly left of the spine and to try and find a gap between the ribs. Wood didn't cut through bone very well. He ought to know.

"Lord Jaime Lannister," called Damon. All eyes turned to him. Ser Rodrik shook his head at him discreetly, but the vampire ignored him. "They have said you are the best swordsman in the realm. Is this true?"

"So they say," said Jaime, raising an eyebrow at his impudence, but he did not seem angry. Huh. A worthy opponent, then; there was nothing Damon liked better than to unsettle men who were in complete control of their tempers.

"I would very much like to pit my skill against yours and prove it true. Or not."

Jaime laughed. "You have some nerve, young man," he said. "What is your name?"

"Damon," said the vampire.

"Like Daemon Blackfyre?"

"Like Damon Salvatore."

"Damon Salvatore." Jaime tried that name out slowly on his tongue, as if tasting it. "I shall remember that name. Alas, I will have to decline your offer today. I have duties I must attend to." He turned on his heel and strode away, his white and gold cloak fanning out behind him.

"A pity he declined your offer, Salvatore," said Robb. "I would have liked to see him beat you."

* * *

In, and out. In, and out. The thread slid smoothly through the fabric. Her stitches were neat and tiny and even. Another image was already forming on the linen. It was an elaborate pattern of intertwining leaves and larks fluttering amongst pale spring blossoms. This was only an initial design, but eventually, she intended to use it for her wedding gown. Sansa Stark was not going to let inferior hands sew the dress in which she would cross the threshold of her intended's palace.

Every time she thought of her wedding, it was always the same scene. The sun would be shining, and the crowds adoring. The golden spires of King's Landing gleamed, never mind that they were made out of stone and were reddish in colour rather than golden, so her father had said. She wasn't going to let reality ruin her daydreams. She would wave to the cheering smallfolk, resplendent in her gown of azure and gold, her hair twisted up like the queen's. They, in return, would carpet her path with flowers as her carriage passed. Joffrey would be there in the background, dressed in the Lannister red and gold he so favoured. She could never picture his expression, but that hardly mattered. She was the people's princess. They loved her for it. She'd even dreamed of her wedding once and it had looked exactly like that, except Arya had then thrown mud at her from the crowd and ruined things as she always had.

And, instead of Joffrey, her future husband had had dark hair, blue eyes, and a wicked wicked grin.

"Lady Sansa, the princess is speaking to you," said Septa Mordane quietly. She had been so embroiled in her daydreams that she had not even heard the princess!

"Forgive me, Highness," said Sansa. "I am afraid I dream too much."

"I hope it's not about Joff, Lady Sansa," said Myrcella. Her brow furrowed.

Sansa had the good sense to blush. Well, it had kind of been about the prince, except it had mostly been about her becoming princess and eventually queen. And the king was always interchangeable.

"I was merely wondering about the tale your bannerman, Damon Salvatore, told us. Is there really a vampire in Winterfell?"

"Oh, don't heed that silly man, Your Highness" said the princess' septa. "There is no such thing as vampires. He made it up just to scare you and the princes. The queen asked me to have words with him. Prince Tommen is now too afraid to venture outside."

"You could always put garlic in your room if you're scared, Your Highness," Arya butted in, brazen as usual.

"Don't be ridiculous, Arya," said Sansa. "The princess doesn't need garlic. There's no such thing as vampires. I have never seen anything that does not have a reflection."

"That's because you're so busy looking at yours," muttered her sister. Her hair, as usual, was scraggly and unkempt, rather like the tail of Jon's horse. Was it really so hard to _comb_ it every once in a while? Did she not understand that a woman's greatest weapon was her beauty? Septas and septons said it was shallow to put so much stock in appearance, but then people judged you by yours anyway.

Sansa knew her face was the greatest asset she would ever own, aside from her Stark name and Tully relations. Even from a young age, she had always understood that. Unlike Robb, she would never inherit anything. Unlike Jon and Bran and Rickon, she would never be able to eke out a living on her own. No respectable woman would. The only way to secure her future was to marry, and marry well, and to do that, she needed to appear as the perfect wife. Beauty could be as effective a weapon as a sword. Why couldn't Arya understand that? She worried about her sister sometimes, for she seemed to believe that _she_ could be a knight. Sansa could only hope that in time, Arya would grow up and realize how foolish she was.

* * *

The sky was so close, yet so far. Bran reached for the stone above him, his fingers finding nooks and crags and crannies where no one else could see anything. His mother had sworn he could climb before he could walk, and she had done everything to try and stop him ever since. Nothing had ever worked.

The thing was, whereas some other people, such as his mother, were afraid of heights, Bran loved them. Being high up so close the sky made him feel free, as if he was alone in the world and the gods were trying to tell him something only he could hear. He wondered if, one day, he might climb high enough to pluck the moon from the sky or rest his head on a bed of soft fluffy cloud. What would they feel like? Would the moon be cool like a silver mirror, or burning hot like a piece of metal that had been heated beyond red in the forge?

For now, he satisfied his need to be close to the sky with the towers of Winterfell. They weren't nearly tall enough, but he liked sitting on the parapets and looking down. Everything below would seem so small, like little ants scurrying around, even his father or Robb.

He heard the strange noises, like the grunts of animals, before he reached the window. That was odd. No-one ever came up here. Curiosity drove him. He slowly and carefully made his way around the tower to the window…

* * *

Her little boy looked even smaller surrounded by furs, his face pale and his head bandaged. Blood slowly seeped through the white linen. Maester Luwin shook his head slowly at Catelyn as he rose from the boy's bedside. Her eyes were dry. This was beyond tears, beyond weeping, for no words could express a mother's grief when faced with the very real prospect of losing a child. What would she do to swap places with him? Actually, the question was what _wouldn't_ she do?

'_Why do you always have to climb_?' she cried out silently as she took Bran's small limp hand in her own. He did not answer. His eyes remained closed and his breathing was so shallow it was barely there.

He had never fallen before, not even when it had been raining and the stones had been wet and slippery. There had never been one with a surer step than Bran. Why today? Why ever?

The servants brought her meals up to the sickroom. She let them sit there until the steam faded away and the fat congealed around the meat. Maester Luwin and his assistants constantly came in and out. They tried to soothe her with reassuring words as they spooned medicine and honey mixed with water into Bran's unresponsive mouth, but deep in her heart, she could hear what they were really saying. There was no hope. It was only a matter of time.

But how could a mother simply accept that? She never would, not until she had tried everything and Bran drew his last breath. So she kept sitting by his bedside as the day grew dark and faded into night, hoping he would wake up and tell her how he fell.

She lost count of the number of days, the number of nights, the meals uneaten and the words unspoken. No one, not Ned, not Robb, not Sansa nor Arya could persuade her to leave Bran's bedside to take rest. She couldn't rest while her child's life hung in the balance. She prayed. She had never prayed so fervently, hoping that somewhere out there, someone would take pity on an innocent child.

"Lady Catelyn?" Someone was calling to her, and they had been doing so for a while. Catelyn raised weary eyes, noting with dull surprise that it was night time yet again. Bonnie Bennett stood awkwardly at the door with a fast cooling bowl of something in her hands.

"I am not hungry," said Catelyn.

"It is not for you, milady," said Bonnie. She looked down at the floor. "I…I…brewed this for Lord Bran. It's a remedy passed down from my mother and my grandmother. I know I'm just a maid, and I'm not learned like Maester Luwin but perhaps..."

"The maesters have tried everything and none of it has worked," said Catelyn. "What hurt can it do to try?" She took the bowl from the girl and stirred the dark contents. It smelled of medicinal herbs and something else. She hesitated and glanced up at the maid, who still had not moved.

Bonnie took the bowl back from Catelyn and spooned a little bit of the potion into her own mouth before handing it back.

It had gotten to the point now where Bran could not swallow on his own, not even reflexively. With every spoonful, they had to rub his throat to help him take the medicine. But it seemed to Catelyn that with each spoonful, his colour improved, and his breathing became easier. His eyelids twitched. The movement was so small as to be almost unnoticeable, but she saw it.

"Quickly, fetch Maester Luwin!" she cried.

* * *

Well, well. There _was_ a vampire in Winterfell indeed, but that was a good thing. Not for the first time, Benjen was glad for the presence of the undead. There was no doubt that the potion brewed by young pretty Bonnie Bennett contained vampire blood. However, he was not going to expose her for what she was. She had saved Bran's life, and if she had to drink from a villager or two each night and occasionally bite Robb –all right, perhaps biting Robb was not so acceptable, but it had only happened once− then maybe it was worth it. With winter coming and threats brewing, they would have need for more vampire blood before the end.

He didn't say anything as he watched the girl hurrying across the courtyard with a basketful of herbs for Bran's medicine. He had to be right about her. Ned had said she and her friend Damon had arrived just before the attacks started, and she had the same unassuming and harmless look as Elena. It was fitting, really, that the most powerful of creatures seemed the most harmless. Wasn't that always the case in life?

The ranger made his way slowly to the stables. He was eager to get back to the Wall. Robert had reluctantly promised to pledge more men to the Wall after Benjen had spent what felt like hours trying to persuade him that there was a point to all of it. He did not believe in the reports of White Walkers or Wights at all.

Benjen knew all the Night's Watch would get would be the very dregs of the realm that no one actually wanted to deal with, but they were desperate for more men. It didn't really matter what they got anymore. Well, it did, but men no longer saw it as an honour to serve the Watch.

"Uncle Benjen!"

Benjen sighed. Well, men no longer saw it as an honour unless they were named Jon Snow. He could understand the boy's eagerness. He wanted a place to call his own, something he could claim, a purpose in life. What else did young men want, ultimately? Robb was the heir to Winterfell, and even Theon Greyjoy served a purpose as a hostage. But Jon had no purpose in Winterfell. He was much like Benjen when he had been a young man just emerging from the cusp of boyhood.

"Uncle Benjen, I have thought about it, and I am ready," said Jon. "I want to come north with you."

* * *

**A/N: **And we're almost leaving Winterfell behind. The gang is going to be split up! And, of course, Jon finds out some rather important truths about his new friends very soon. Thanks for all your patience, guys! We're slowly getting to the meat of the sandwich!

The song that Damon sings at the feast is 'Love You to Death' by Kamelot. We thought it fitting, and it's an absolutely beautiful song.


	6. The Man Who Knew Too Much

**Disclaimer:** We don't own anything. Robb, Jon, etc. remain the property of Mr Martin and Damon, Bonnie, Katherine, and their supernatural friends are creations of LJ Smith and Julie Plec.

**Chapter 6: The Man Who Knew Too Much**

Jon cast one last look around his room. It was the one he had grown up in and the only space he could call his own in Winterfell, yet even that had been borrowed, for he had always been reliant on the hospitality of Lady Catelyn. His few belongings were already stowed away in two packs on his horse. There wasn't much; just some clothing, whet stones, and provisions that he would need for his journey. Everything else he left on the shelves. There was a small wooden carved wolf that he had treasured as a boy and his small wooden practise sword. His father had given him and Robb one each on their fifth name day. Well, it had been Robb's name day. Jon never knew when his was and no one had ever told him. When his brother had his name day, he knew he was one year older too.

"I suppose that's it then?" said Damon. Jon almost drew his sword. Why did Damon _always_ have to appear without warning when he was least expected to? If he did that a few more times, he might begin to suspect the sell-sword was one of the 'grumpkins and snarks' from beyond the Wall that Tyrion Lannister liked to mock.

"I know you do not approve, but I do not need your approval," said Jon, putting down the wooden sword on the shelf. He would leave all these things behind. That was in the past. He now faced a future of honour and purpose, and no one could say anything to convince him otherwise.

"Hey, I'm not your mother," said Damon. "Why should I care if you decide to throw your life away on some frozen waste?"

Thoughts of a previous conversation came unbidden to Jon. He still didn't know why he had told Damon of his decision to join the Watch. And no, he did not believe he had "subconsciously" asked for advice.

"Why would you want to join some celibate brotherhood and freeze your balls off on some wasteland guarding against fairy tales no one else seems to believe in?"

That had been the question Damon had asked while Robb had been occupied with business with Ned and King Robert. Theon had gone to visit the brothel, leaving Damon and Jon with a lot of time on their hands and no mood to do anything.

It was what everyone said to him whenever he mentioned joining the Watch, which was not all that often. But he had happened to make the mistake of mentioning it to Damon, thinking that _he_ of all people would understand, being someone who had had to make his own way in the world. And there was more honour in taking the black than becoming a sell-sword, which was the only other path Jon could see himself taking.

He and Damon had been trying to teach Ghost to fetch sticks, with limited success. The pup had been looking at them as if saying, "What is the point of this? At least throw me a _bone._" Jon had given up. Damon had not.

"I want to make something of myself, Damon," Jon had said. "Don't you?"

"So you take the path that everyone else expects you to take because you're a bastard."

"I don't see what else there is for me, unless I want to become like you."

"There's nothing wrong with being a sell-sword. I ended up in a pretty good place, didn't I?"

"Not everyone is as lucky."

"And not everyone has Robb as a brother. If I were you, I…well, I wouldn't say I'd milk it, but, you know…I'd definitely make use of the connection, if you get my meaning."

But the last thing Jon wanted was to be a burden to Robb. He wanted to forge his own path, to make his name known for its sake alone, not because he was Robb's half-brother.

"I have made my choice. I don't even know why I'm talking to you about it."

"You're talking to me about it because you're not sure what you want and subconsciously, you want my advice because I've got the experience, the intelligence, and everything else that you haven't got.

"In fifty years, a hundred years, a hundred and fifty years, it won't matter that you were born on the wrong side of the sheets, Jon Snow. What they will remember is what you made of yourself after that."

"I can't even think of what will happen next year, Damon. I don't really care about what happens next century."

Perhaps he had lied, both to himself and to the sell-sword. He _did _care what they thought of him in a century. Would they whisper his name with admiration, or would they simply forget him, just as everyone else seemed to forget him?

"Hmm…" said Damon. "Maybe. Just don't say no one warned you when your idyllic future goes sour."

"Are you sure you're not _subconsciously _trying to convince me to stay because you have no idea how you are going to tolerate yourself without my companionship?"

"Whoa, Jon Snow, are we using big words now?"

"There is one thing that the Wall definitely has over Winterfell now that you're here. I won't have to put up with you anymore when I leave."

"Heh, you wouldn't have had the pleasure of my presence in Winterfell for much longer anyway. Lord Stark is taking me with him to King's Landing when he takes up the mantle of the Hand of the King."

* * *

The wagons, loaded with their dark oilcloth covered bundles and all the provisions they were going to need for a month long journey –two months, if things got tough− waited in the courtyard. It seemed as if all of Winterfell had come out to see off Lord Stark. Damon had never really appreciated how many people there were in the city, or the high regard in which they held the ruling house, until now.

A fine powdery rain had started falling, darkening the flagstones and casting a haze over everything. He drank in the sights and sounds and smells of the first city he had ever encountered in Westeros. It was hard to believe, but he would actually _almost_ miss this place.

"Write to me as soon as Bran wakes up," Ned said gruffly to Catelyn as he pressed a kiss to her forehead. Although not a man given to great displays of emotion, he was easy to read as…well, not even a book. He was more like one of those short succinct articles in newspapers written to accommodate the comprehension abilities of the lowest denominator in the masses. He hated to leave at a time like this when his son hung in the balance between life and death, but his duty called, and Eddard Stark would always put duty first. He was even more chronic than non-ripper Stefan.

"I will," said Catelyn. "Look after yourself and don't work too hard. You know how you can get."

"I promise I will remember to eat and sleep," said Ned.

He embraced Robb and patted Theon on the shoulder. Arya and Sansa would be coming with them to the capital and Jon would be riding with them to the Crossroads –they were very creative with names in Westeros.

Robb embraced Jon tightly. "Look after yourself, Snow," he said.

"And you too, Stark," said Jon, dredging up the most pathetic smile in the world. Damon could understand what they were feeling. He missed Stefan too, as he had done during the several times they had been separated, not that he would actually admit it. However, the Salvatores always had the chance of meeting each other again, whether it was fifty years later or a hundred years later. But unlike the Salvatores, Robb and Jon didn't have that luxury. Fifty years was more than a lifetime for the two young north men.

"Promise you'll write back," said Robb when he finally released Jon.

"You know I can't," said Jon.

"Then find someone who can help you. Promise me."

"I'll try."

As for the vampire, he had very few goodbyes to say. Oh, the girls would miss him, of course, but they were already setting their eyes on new targets, such as the acting lord of Winterfell. If that was their goal, Damon wished them good luck. Robb was…picky.

Bonnie was the only person who hugged Damon goodbye, but even that was a guise to exchange words with him that she didn't want others to hear.

Because Bran was yet to wake, Catelyn had requested that she stay behind to continue brewing her 'secret concoctions' for him. Damon had been rather reluctant to donate any more blood towards the cause. The boy was going to live. That was good enough for him. But Bonnie had insisted, saying he owed the Starks. Which he sort of did, but that was never anything he would actually admit, either out loud or to himself.

However, he actually liked Ned's sons well enough to relent at the very last, and now there were several vials of _Sang de Damon_ sitting in a cold corner of a store room somewhere for Bonnie's potions.

"Behave," she hissed into his ear.

"Define that, witchy," he whispered back as he patted her back and pretended to say that he would miss her. He wouldn't. Not really. He doubted she'd miss him either.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," he advised Theon once Bonnie was convinced that she'd convinced him to at least restrain himself from drinking any royals while in King's Landing – he was still curious, but it seemed a reasonable enough request.

"But there is nothing and no one you wouldn't do," said Theon. A look from Catelyn made him shut up with an apologetic look.

"With you out of the picture, Salvatore, it will be much easier to make sure he behaves," said Robb.

"I'm just afraid you'll get bored, milord," said Damon, bowing to him.

"Bored? Relieved is probably a better word," said Robb. "You have no excuse to not write back. I want to know everything about King's Landing; everything you hear, see, smell, taste…anything."

Was it just him, or did Robb seem a little envious? He was stuck in grey little Winterfell while his brother and his sisters all went off on adventures in distant places he had never been to. Envy was probably a very reasonable thing to be feeling in his case.

"Is that another way of saying you'll miss me, Lord Robb?" asked Damon.

"Hardly," said Robb. "Now go. If you tarry any longer, they will simply leave you behind."

The vampire bowed low with a flourish. "As you command, Lord Stark," he said.

* * *

Howling winds blew from the north. The landscape had become…well, he'd say 'stark' but that would be a bad pun, apparently. The grass grew sparser as they continued their way up north. The sun never shone, and all the streams and springs seemed to be frozen. Whenever anyone wanted water, they needed to break the ice to get to it. Sometimes they needed to boil ice for water.

It had been several days since Jon had parted from his father at the Crossroads. He missed him. He missed Winterfell. But he was determined to carve a place in a world that did not want him and nothing in the world could possibly make him turn back, no matter what Damon or anybody said.

Thick forests entangled them in their boughs, and the men were always on guard for predators…or other things. Only the dwarf, Tyrion Lannister, seemed unconcerned about whatever dangers lay on the road as he embarked on his quest to "piss off the Wall". He would sit contentedly reading by the fire. Jon had never seen anyone devour books the way he did, and he could not possibly see what was so interesting or useful about squiggles written on vellum.

"Why do you read so much?" he asked him one night as he sharpened his sword. The feel of stone against metal, the steady rhythm, and the ringing that reverberated with each stroke were comforting and familiar. Orange flames crackled, sending sparks up into the night sky like tiny stars rising to meet their greater distant cousins already up in the heavens. The sparks flared and swirled for a transient moment before fading away into black nothingness, none of them ever making it higher than the first branch of the shortest tree. The firelight made the asymmetry of the dwarf's face even more prominent, and his eyes were cast in shadows beneath his heavy brows.

"You whet your sword often, yes?" said Tyrion without looking up from his page.

"Yes," said Jon.

"You have your sword. I don't have a sword, but I have my mind and a mind needs books the way a sword needs a whetstone." At his confused silence, Tyrion finally looked up. "Swords do not change the world, young bastard. Ideas do."

"What did you call me?" asked Jon as he stiffened.

"I called you a bastard," said Tyrion quite calmly. "For that is what you are, Jon Snow. The sooner you learn that, the better. I am a dwarf, or the Imp, if you like. I own it."

The idea of simply accepting he was a bastard, and the fact that ideas rather than swords shaped the world was almost more than Jon could comprehend right now. It went against everything he had been taught; everything he had ever known.

He returned to sharpening his sword in silence.

* * *

Robb knocked on the door slowly, quietly, as if he were afraid of disturbing Bran's rest. Which was ironic, really, because everyone actually wanted him to wake up; the sooner the better. However, a few moments later, his mother opened the door. Her red hair, once so like Sansa's, was dull and tangled, and she seemed to have aged ten years.

"How is he?" asked Robb as he entered the sickroom and closed the door behind him.

"He sleeps still," said Catelyn.

"Has Bonnie been by with the medicine?"

His mother nodded. For a moment, Robb felt a little guilty, for he had taken the maidservant away so she could help Maester Luwin sort through the daily documents which came to the lord's attention. His father had taken the maester's assistants to King's Landing, and it was hard to find someone whose reading comprehension was at the right level to replace them. Bonnie read better than most, and she had been of invaluable aid to the maester who would otherwise have been swamped with paperwork.

And just like Bonnie, there were other duties that Catelyn needed to attend to. He watched her as she sat back down by Bran's bedside, weaving a prayer circle with depictions of the seven southern gods.

"You have to come out at some point, Mother," said Robb. "Rickon needs you. He's six, and he's scared. He spends all day clinging to my legs, asking what's going on and I don't know how to explain it to him." He tried to be firm and gentle, the way his father always was.

"They say he will never walk again," Catelyn blurted out suddenly.

Robb paused. Never walk again? He could not ever imagine Bran not climbing. His mother had always wanted him to stop climbing, but this was just a cruel trick by the gods. He didn't know which ones, and he didn't care. If they could do this to his brother, they were not his gods.

They remained silent, watching the light from the candles and the hearth flicker over Bran's face. And then there was more light; more than there ought to be. Robb ran to the window. He could see the orange glow lighting up the night sky and hear the shouts of panicking men. The town below the castle was aflame.

"You stay here," he said to his mother as he rushed out the door. "I will be back."

Men were already running around trying to douse the fire haphazardly. It hissed at them like an angry snake whenever someone threw water into the flames with no effect at all. They danced from roof to roof, taking hold on the tar tiles and straw thatching easily. The roofs caved in as they were eaten away by the fire.

Robb quickly organised the men the best he could. He could not fight the fire if he randomly attacked it, he knew, but he could contain it until it burnt itself out. Buckets and buckets were water were brought in and thrown onto the edge of the flames and the buildings that had yet to catch fire. Besides, there were more important things to worry about.

Winterfell was not the most flammable of places. The cold and damp meant hardly anything ever caught fire, at least not accidentally. There had been the occasional incident where someone had not been watching their hearths or had fallen asleep and knocked over a candle, but this…

This had to be deliberate.

Why would someone deliberately start a fire in Winter Town of all places? As far as he knew, the usual inhabitants had very few grudges against each other; at least, not grudges so big that they would risk destroying half the town to get vengeance. So it had to be something else.

He turned to the man-at-arms closest to him and tried to recall his name. Fagan? Dagan? He couldn't really remember; what he did remember was that he was the opposite of Damon's favourite person in all of Winterfell. "Tell the men to arm themselves. There may be an attack tonight. Bar the city gates. No one gets in or out without my say so," said Robb.

"But it is a fire, milord," said the man in confusion. Yes, he could see why the clever sell-sword had disliked him. He was as dull as Rickon's toy dagger and less useful.

"The fire is a diversion for something else," said Robb.

"It doesn't have to be. It could be an accident−"

Robb cut him off before he could complete his syllable. "If you are afraid of fighting the enemy, then perhaps you ought to fight the fire."

"Milord, I am a _knight_−" Robb did not let him finish. He snatched an empty bucket from one of the men thrust it at Damon's-least-favourite-person and pierced him with one of his scathing Tully glares. The man scurried off.

"Did I just see you touch a _bucket_?" asked Theon incredulously.

"Yes, you did," said Robb, snatching up another bucket and thrusting it into the Greyjoy's arms. "And look, I did it again."

"What am I supposed to do with this?" asked Theon.

Robb rolled his eyes. "You see what Bonnie is doing?" The girl was getting more water on her skirts than anywhere near the flames, but at least she would not be burned, and she was trying to help. He had to give her a little credit for that. "Help her."

Theon stared at him as if he wanted to slam the bucket over his head.

"Now, Theon," said Robb. As an afterthought, he added: "Please." There. That ought to keep him happy.

At first, it seemed futile, but the prolonged efforts of the men, and the lack of things to burn, killed it by morning. But the fire was not his main concern. All night, he was tense, wondering when the attack would come. Part of him wanted it to come, the sooner the better. He knew he could lead the men into battle. He had been trained to lead his whole life, and he was itching to do it. Another part was afraid; afraid that he would not live up to everyone's expectations.

The attack never came. Smoke wreathed the blackened streets of the town. A red gash appeared on the horizon. It remained quiet and sullen. He had made the men arm themselves in the middle of the night for nothing. What would they think?

"Robb!" Theon ran towards him, his face covered in soot. Beside him was Bonnie, also covered in soot. Both were unharmed. "Robb…Lady Stark…Bran…" Robb did not wait for him to catch his breath so he could utter a complete sentence.

He ran towards the sickroom.

* * *

The journey had been exciting at the beginning, but as it wore on, Arya began to feel it was more of the same thing over and over again. Every day, they would ride, stopping several times for rests and meals. At least in Winterfell, she was able to practise archery with her brothers. Now there was no one except Sansa, and _she_ was off riding with Joffrey, not that Sansa would practise archery with anyone. Or sparring. Arya wished someone would teach her to spar. Jon would have, but he was at the Wall now and she didn't know when she'd see him again.

She sat by the quickly flowing river which rushed over the round rocks as if it were hurrying to get somewhere. Where else could it go but the sea? She began setting leaves, like little green boats, on the surface of the water and watching them bob away, turning on the currents and sometimes getting dashed against stones, wondering if they would make it to the sea. She had never seen the sea before. Robb had, and he'd said it was wild and wet and windy and grey; awe-inspiring, but not very fun at all. Boats would sooner be dashed against the cliffs than sail out onto the open ocean.

Horses and men passed by her as if she were simply another rock or log by the side of the river. No one took any notice of Sansa's little sister who wasn't nearly as pretty and who didn't know how to sew.

"Lady Arya." Arya looked up. A boy of thirteen, covered in dirt and freckles, was approaching her. His clothes were torn and stained with old blood from the animals his father killed. "Me da jus' lemme go. We were cuttin' up a pig fer t'night, see."

Arya couldn't care less about tonight's pig. She was just glad to see her friend. Mycah was the butcher's son. He wasn't particularly bright, he smelled like meat that had been left out for too long, and had a face that looked like it had been squashed into the ground by falling piece of pork, but he was her friend and the only one who was happy to help her practise sword fighting. Mycah swore he would become a knight someday, somehow. He hadn't figured it out quite just yet, but he was so certain he would get there one day.

She had to admit he wasn't too bad with a sword. Well, stick. She was the only one with a sword, and she didn't have anyone to stick the pointy end into. The sticks were almost the right length, and this would have to do for now until she found someone who was actually willing to teach her. She had her eye on Damon, actually, but he was too busy with 'duties', although she had seen him do nothing except wander around aimlessly, ribbing the men and offering pleasant flatteries to Sansa. Oh, and spending a lot of time standing guard outside her father's tent whenever he discussed matters with King Robert. That was an _actual_ duty, she supposed.

Mycah struck the back of her hand with his stick. It would bruise later and Septa Mordane would scold her for it, but she didn't care. The sting and ache only made her want to win all the more. Was this what the men called 'battle fever'?

"Arya! What are you doing?"

She had been so engrossed in her sparring that she had not noticed Sansa and Joffrey riding up, Sansa upon her mare and Joffrey on his stallion the colour of molten sunlight. Sansa covered her nose as she approached and pulled to a stop beside the two of them. "Ladies do not fight with butcher's boys," she said in that haughty tone of hers that made Arya want to throw her into the stream. Or something. The sight of Sansa emerging from the water dripping and screaming with her hair and gown ruined would be very satisfying.

"Is that your sister, Sansa?" asked Joffrey, sounding louder than usual.

"Unfortunately, Your Highness," replied Sansa.

Joffrey dismounted a little unsteadily. As he neared, Arya smelled the summerwine on him.

"What is your name, boy?" he asked Mycah.

The boy's eyes were round with fear upon beholding the rich cloak and tunic of the prince, and the sword that hung by his side. Joffrey slowly drew his blade, which he called Lion's Tooth. Arya had remarked on it before to Damon that it was odd for him to name it after his mother's house rather than his father's.

"He can hardly name it 'Stag's Antler' unless he wants to be known as a cuckold forever," the man-at-arms had said. Arya had laughed then. She wasn't laughing now.

The blade rang lightly as it scraped against the side of the scabbard. Joffrey levelled it at Mycah, the tip pointing directly at his face. "What is your name, I asked."

"His name is Mycah, Your Highness. He's the butcher's son," said Sansa with disgust. She covered her nose as if something smelled bad.

"He's my friend," said Arya.

"Do you know what the penalty is for hurting my betrothed's sister, butcher's boy?" asked Joffrey.

"He didn't hurt me. We were sparring. It was an accident!"

Joffrey ignored her. "Take up your stick and let's see how well you spar, Ser Butcher," he sneered. Mycah shook his head. Dim as he was, he understood that he could not take up arms against a prince.

"Pick up your stick! Or do you only fight little girls?" The tip of the sword drew blood from Mycah's cheek.

She had to do something. She knew that look in Joffrey's eyes. It was the same look in the kitchen cat's eyes as he toyed with a mouse before he killed it just because he could. "Stop it!" she screamed, and before anyone could do anything to stop her, she'd struck Joffrey on the back of the head with her stick. Too late she remembered Damon advising Bran to hit at the temple rather than anywhere else because it was easier to kill a man that way.

The impact of the blow made Joffrey fall to the ground on his face and cracked her stick in two. "You!" snarled Joffrey. He forgot Mycah as he scrambled to his feet and lunged at Arya. She dodged, and just in time, or else he would have gutted her like a pig.

"Run, Mycah!" Arya shouted. The boy wasted no time in doing so.

Joffrey lunged at her again, but before he could strike, Nymeria had leapt at him. He yelled in fright and confusion as the pup's sharp teeth sank into his sword arm, making him drop his sword. "Damned dog! I'll have its pelt for a rug!" Yes, Joffrey, if only he could just dislodge her from his arm. At this rate, Nymeria would be making a rug out of Joffrey's pelt. It wouldn't be a very good rug, but it would be even more satisfying than…anything else Arya could think of.

She picked up Joffrey's sword before he could reclaim it and threw it as far as she could into the rushing river. It disappeared beneath the currents with a splash. Hopefully it would be washed all the way out to sea.

"Come, Nymeria!" she said. The wolf let the prince go. He still lay cradling his arm and screaming obscenities, but now more a like a snivelling trembling child than a prince who could rule the world. There would be consequences, Arya knew. She didn't wait to find out what they would be. The safety and shadow of the wood beckoned.

* * *

Ned called her name until his voice was hoarse, yet he had found no sign of his daughter or her direwolf. When he had first heard that Arya had attacked Joffrey, he had found it hard to believe, but the bite marks on the prince's arm were hard to deny.

The forest was so dark that even with torches, he could only see the silhouettes of the tangled trees and branches. White vapours swirled about his legs and the torch light illuminated the clouds emerging with each breath. An owl hooted and crows cawed as they were disturbed by the searchers.

"Anything, Salvatore?" he asked. The younger man had better eyes, and better tracking skills. Damon straightened himself from his crouch and dropped his handful of leaves.

"Not at all, milord," he said. "Are you sure she would not have gone back to camp?" He turned around slowly, blue eyes narrowed, as he surveyed the surrounding trees and underbrush. "Because the only thing that's been through here recently is a doe."

"If she had returned to camp, they would have sent word," said Ned.

Suddenly, there were shouts in the distance; panicked shouts and screams. Ned's heart almost stopped as he thought of what the knights could possibly have found to make them scream like children waking from nightmares. Had someone found his daughter? How was she? Where was she? He began to run, ignoring the pleas from his men for him to wait for them in case there was any danger. If there was danger, then he had to be there to protect Arya. He had to−

"It came out of nowhere!"

"It grabbed him!"

"What was it?!"

Men were running in all directions, their faces white with terror even in the dark. Some of them were so terrified they could not even talk and could only blabber when Ned demanded what was going on.

On the ground lay a broken body. Relief made Ned go weak at the knees even as concern seized his heart. The man's mouth was open in a silent scream, his face frozen forever in terror.

Two thin streams of blood trickled from the puncture wounds in his neck.

* * *

**A/N:** Ooh, who can that possibly be?


	7. Bodies of Lies

**Disclaimer:** We don't own anything. Robb, Jon, etc. remain the property of Mr Martin and Damon, Bonnie, Katherine, and their supernatural friends are creations of LJ Smith and Julie Plec.

**Chapter 7: Bodies of Lies**

_**The Kingsroad**_

Arya heard them calling her name long before she saw the menacing orange light from their torches. She heard her father among them, but she did not come out. If luck was on her side, they would pass her by without seeing her as she huddled between the roots of a gnarled tree. She shivered and held onto Needle's hilt more tightly. The night air was cold, and her clothes were damp from dew. She was tired and hungry and her eyes were swollen from crying after she'd sent Nymeria away, knowing fully well that they would not spare the wolf. She had bitten the prince.

Mist pooled on the forest floor, obscuring her further from sight, even if they should come this way. They seemed to be coming, but at times their voices faded away again when they took a wrong turn.

Then she started as wind brushed by her, and she thought she saw something move in the darkness; too big to be an owl, and too fast to be a deer or any other animal. She remembered how Robb had described the attack. There had been a little bit of wind as the creature –the _vampire− _had closed in on him. Her heart constricted in terror and she searched the darkness desperately to try and find whatever it was.

But nothing bit her.

Moments later, she heard the screaming of the knights and she knew that she had been _very_ lucky. Perhaps the vampire had thought her too small to be good to drink.

Her father had renewed his shouting with vigour. She was almost tempted to run out into his arms and wait for him to protect her, but that was silly. He was the Hand of the King now. Unlike in Winterfell, he didn't make the rules anymore.

"Lady Arya?"

She gasped and fumbled for her sword, only for Damon to catch her arm. "Please don't do that," he said.

"How did you find me?"

He shrugged. "I'm good," he said. He crouched down so he was on eye level with her. "What do you say? Go out and face the music?"

"I don't want to," she said.

"You can't stay here forever, milady. You'll freeze, starve, and otherwise die a horrible death, especially with that thing out there."

"Is it a vampire?"

"Maybe, maybe not." Damon offered her a hand and pulled her to her feet. "You probably don't want to stay and find out. Cheer up. Your wolf's safe. They won't catch her, and you're Eddard Stark's daughter. They wouldn't dare to do much to you."

* * *

_She saw the torches and the men wandering in groups of threes and fours. It was too good a chance to forgo. Prey was rare in these parts. She was simply passing through on her way…well, she didn't know where. This was not her land; unfamiliar territory. But she had not survived so long by being inflexible. So long as there were people, there was drink. And as long as she had drink, she would survive. Thrive, even. Forensic science here was rudimentary at best. In fact, it didn't seem to exist at all. Life was cheap and no one cared if people died or went missing. _

_The man walked right beneath her branch. She pulled him up, armour and all. It was not so different from picking up a bottle from the wine cellar. His blood was sweet and salty and hot and without the taint of pollution or artificial flavouring. She let the body drop when he stopped struggling and screaming. _

_His companions began screaming. The smell of fresh ammonia wafted up. Really? She expected little boys to wet their pants. Not men. _

_She stuck to the shadows. Ah, here was Damon. He ran by beneath the trees, not bothering to look up. Tut tut. He ought to know better. One of the men, the older, serious one, was shouting for him. Lord Eddard Stark, without a doubt. She'd heard the rumours that _Damon_ had found employment with one of the great houses. _

_He pulled the little girl up from amongst the roots of the gnarled tree. Was it just her, or did he seem…domesticated? With a few more glances around him, but not above him, he led her away as quickly as she could walk. _

_More torches were coming her way. Time to go._

* * *

Her sister looked a sorry sight, covered in dirt and leaves, with twigs in her hair. Tears had made pale tracks in her dirty face.

"Your daughter and her wolf attacked my son, the heir to the Iron Throne," Queen Cersei said to Ned, her voice as hard as the diamonds she wore about her throat.

"The prince attacked me first," Arya insisted. "Nymeria was just trying to defend me." She turned to Sansa. "Sansa, you were there. Tell them!"

Sansa looked first at the queen, and then at Joffrey, and then finally at her sister. She could tell the truth, that Joffrey had tried to hurt the butcher's boy, and then Arya, and the wolf had only been trying to help. But then, if she did that, would she still be Joffrey's betrothed? How could he love her if she betrayed him?

"Prince Joffrey never attacked you," she said. "He was just playing, but then you got too serious, as you usually do."

Joffrey smirked.

"He hurt Mycah, Sansa!" said Arya.

"The butcher's boy was being rude. He deserved to be taught a lesson." Oh, she saw the body, even if it was just a glimpse. She still wanted to vomit whenever she thought of it. If there was a way to unsee things, she would pay a thousand gold dragons for it.

"And he learned it," said Joffrey. "The dog cut him just about clean in half, didn't you, dog?"

Behind Joffrey, the Hound said nothing.

"Well, that's that, then," said Cersei. "I am sorry, Lord Stark, but your daughter must be punished."

"She's only young, my queen," Ned pleaded. "Arya, tell his highness how sorry you are."

Arya looked as if she'd swallowed something horrible, but even so, she managed to mutter an apology.

"You might be sorry, but crime cannot go unpunished, little Arya," said Cersei. Her voice seemed kind, but her eyes were cold. "And since the wolf that attacked the prince is not here, another wolf shall take its place."

No. They couldn't take Lady! But she was the only wolf here. She turned to Cersei, about to plead, but the look in the queen's eyes stopped her cold. There would be no mercy from her. Why would she relent? A Lannister always paid their debts, and she was a Lannister in every way, from her golden head down to her gold-embroidered slipper. But she had to try. Lady was hers! She was innocent!

All the pleas in the world fell on deaf ears. It was through tear-blurred eyes that she saw the guards move outside to where Lady was chained, unwary and trusting the way she always was. She wished she could tell them the truth now, that it was Joffrey who started everything. Yes, she had wanted to get back at Arya for all the times she'd ruined things, but this…she'd never wanted this!

"Stop!" said her father. "The wolf is of the north. I shall do it myself."

Did it matter who did it? Lady was still going to die and it was her fault because she'd been too scared of the consequences to tell the truth.

Ned commanded Damon and Jory to take her and her sister back to their tents. She held onto Damon and wept, but even his soothing murmurs couldn't calm her. And when she finally did close her eyes due to exhaustion, all she saw was Joffrey's smirking golden face.

* * *

_**Winterfell**_

Catelyn summoned them to the very centre of the Godswood beneath the Heart Tree, the only place where no on else would be able to hear them. The dagger she carried within the folds of her cloak weighed her down, and she was as nervous as if the Valyrian steel blade was pressed against her throat. They came, curious and sombre at the same time; Robb, Theon, Ser Rodrik, Maester Luwin.

The red leaves rustled and the pool beneath the Heart Tree's branches remained still and black like the dragon glass her nursemaid had told her about as a child. The face of the tree wept tears of blood. She fancied it was crying for Bran.

"Bran did not fall."

The four simple words rendered them all still and silent.

"Do you mean to say he was pushed?" asked Robb, his voice filled with quiet rage like a storm that was about to burst.

"I don't know for certain," said Catelyn. "But I do not believe he fell by accident, and whoever tried to kill him then tried to finish him off for whatever reason. Bran saw something when he climbed the tower that day, and whatever it was he saw, the Lannisters are behind it."

"Word must be sent to father," said Robb. "I will go."

"No," said Catelyn. "You are lord of Winterfell now in your father's absence. I will go."

* * *

**_The Wall_**

The Wall loomed before them, an unending line of rock and ice, like a giant sleeping serpent that had petrified over the centuries. How many men had lived here, died here, and etched their existences here? The Wall had been here before the Targaryens, and it would be here after the Baratheons were long gone.

Their horses' hooves thudded dully on the frozen ground. As they got closer, the Wall became even more imposing, and Jon almost fancied that any one at the top would only have to stretch up with an arm to touch the clouds. It was silly, of course, but it certainly felt that way.

The gates of Castle Black opened with a groan like an old man reluctantly woken from a sound sleep. The number of steps they had to walk up before they even reached the doors of the keep confounded Jon. He felt sorry for the servants who were having to carry up crate after crate of supplies. His legs ached even though he wasn't carrying anything.

They finally reached the top after what seemed like an interminably long time. Jon's legs were numb both from cold and exertion.

The men were already opening the crates to reveal the vegetables Benjen had brought from Winterfell.

"You brought my onions! I could kiss you right now, Benjen Stark, except you and I both know we'll regret it," said a beautiful high voice that obviously did not belong to any _brother_ of the Night's Watch…

* * *

He should have expected something like this, really. Elena in all her exuberance over onions and carrots would be a surprise to anyone coming to the Wall. Jon's expression was almost laughable, and Benjen had never seen anyone's eyes grow this wide before, not even when Robert Baratheon first beheld his sister Lyanna.

"There's a girl on the Wall…" whispered Jon.

"She takes care of all our meals. Do not underestimate her," said Benjen.

"But there's a girl on the Wall…"

"Yes, Jon, are we still on that point?"

"She's pretty."

"Oh, are we on _that_ point now?"

He ought to have anticipated that reaction too. Despite the oversized tunic and the men's trousers she wore, Elena was indeed an uncommonly pretty girl. There had been a reason why he had not offered to take her to Winterfell, despite the Lord Commander's not-discreet suggestions. He could only imagine the mess that would ensue if _Robb _ever saw her.

"You didn't say you were going to be bringing anyone back with you, First Ranger," said Elena as she approached them, having instructed all her cooks to take the supplies to the store rooms and told one of them to add some onions to tonight's stew. Hair escaped from the loose twist at the nape of her neck and the cold had made her cheeks rosy. It was either that, or she'd just eaten.

"This is Jon Snow, a relative of mine. Jon, this is Mistress Elena."

"Just Elena will do…do you mind if I call you Jon?"

"I do not mind at all," said Jon. Was that…was that a _smile_? Benjen looked from Jon to Elena and then back at Jon again. They were both very good looking young people, he would give them that, and they were the same age. Elena might be a few months older, but _just _a few months.

A cough behind him reminded Benjen that he had brought someone else to the Wall. Tyrion Lannister probably needed no introduction, but he stepped forward anyway. Standing amongst tall men in black with swords strapped to their hips, the dwarf stood out as much as pretty Elena did. Perhaps even more.

"Tyrion Lannister," he said. "Of House Lannister, obviously. Oh, please don't bother curtseying."

"Good, because I wasn't planning to."

It wasn't often that Tyrion Lannister was rendered speechless, although it wasn't for lack of trying on Benjen's part. But somehow Elena Gilbert had managed it.

"Beautiful _and_ deadly," said Tyrion with a smile as he quickly recovered. "Perhaps you are capable of doing something to warrant a sentence to the Wall after all." Was Elena flirting with Tyrion Lannister? He was a _Lannister_ after all, and any girl would be able to overlook his stature to see the gold behind him. Especially one as intelligent as Elena.

Elena blushed and looked away from Tyrion.

"Would you like anything to eat?" she asked. All right, perhaps she wasn't that good at flirting with Lannisters after all. "You must be hungry after your long journey."

"We can wait until the evening meal," said Benjen. "We shall stop bothering you, Mistress Elena. I should show Jon to his new quarters and perhaps Lord Tyrion could come and select his" said Benjen.

"Oh, I can take Jon, First Ranger," said Elena. "I'm going that way. It won't be any trouble at all. I'm sure Lord Mormont will want to talk to you and Lord Tyrion. He's in his study."

It made sense to go and report back to Mormont, but did he really want to leave Jon and Elena alone? Well, Elena was not going to eat him, he supposed, and Jon would be quite safe with her. At least physically.

Elena made the decision for him. "Come on," she said to Jon. "The recruits' quarters are this way, close to Maester Aemon's study." And she continued to explain the workings of the Night's Watch, such as she understood them to be, as she led him away.

* * *

_**Essos**_

The drums were loud and the screaming louder. It was what the Dothraki considered music, she supposed. She would have to get used to it if she was to be Khal Drogo's wife. The wind from the sea blew the smell of brine and fish towards her and dispersed the scent of blood and spilled guts.

Flies buzzed around the dishes. She didn't want to taste any of them. Nor the beverages that passed as wine amongst the Dothraki. It smelled like milk gone bad. Her new husband, although handsome in his own way, she supposed, seemed terribly bored and he hardly looked at her. The corners of his lips finally turned upwards when two of his warriors got into a heated argument over a serving girl and began killing each other. She wanted to look away, but she couldn't. She knew she couldn't. She was to be queen to these people, and they would think her weak. Blood and death and killing was just part of their…lifestyle. That, of course, did not mean she had to enjoy it, or even approve. Just as well she hadn't eaten anything all day, or else they would all have made a dramatic reappearance.

Even though it was warm, she had to suppress a shiver. She felt terribly exposed amongst all these men. The nearly translucent fabric of her gown seemed to reveal more than it hid. It was hardly protection from their stares and gazes as they assessed her body, as if she were a brood mare to be sold and traded for a crown.

A man, probably an eastern trader judging by his colourful turban and long flowing robes, presented her with a box of live writhing snakes. Plain black mixed with black diamonds on creamy backgrounds. Pale tongues flicked in and out. Their scales gleamed in the sunlight, like the dragons her brother would tell her about when he was in a good mood. That seldom happened, but that wasn't to say it never happened. She glanced at where Viserys sat with Illyrio, his hair so pale that it might as well be white. Like hers.

Viserys wore a satisfied smile, but that was steadily fading as Drogo continued to ignore him. He was impatient for his army. How he was going to persuade the sea-fearing Dothraki to set sail for Westeros was still a mystery, but Viserys never troubled himself with trifling details like that. He had his eye on the bigger picture.

Another man approached the two of them. He spoke Dothraki, but his skin was pale, although darkened by years spent in the sun. His hair, too, was a light brown, almost blond, even though it now veered toward grey and was receding.

Khal Drogo greeted him. From his tone, it seemed to be a welcome. The other man responded with a bow and then turned to Daenerys, handing her a stack of books. "A gift for the Khaleesi," he said in the common tongue. "Books with tales of the First Men and the Andals." His face was kind, and she was most grateful to him. Even though she did not know his name or where he came from, she felt as if he were family.

"Are you from my country?" she asked.

"I haven't been, not for a while, Khaleesi," he said.

"What is your name, ser, so that I may properly thank you?" she asked.

"Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island," he replied.

She thanked him for the thoughtful gift and carefully set the books aside. He bowed again and stepped down to allow the next well-wisher through.

When she first saw him, her breath died in her throat, and she had to remind herself that she needed to keep breathing. She was a Khaleesi of the Dothraki now, not a silly little girl who swooned when she saw a handsome boy.

But he _was_ handsome, although not in a conventional way, she supposed. She had not really met that many men. His white shirt billowed about him. He had left the top couple of buttons undone. His light brown hair, almost blond, but not quite, curled tightly about his head. His lips were so red and full that they were almost feminine, but they somehow suited his face and his wicked grin. But it was his eyes that made her pause.

They were as blue as the seas of Pentos and deeper, as if they had seen many lifetimes of men, yet they were still full of life and mischief. It was like looking into the eyes of a young man and an old sage at the same time. Later, if one were to ask her how she had felt upon first beholding him, she would not have been able to describe it with words, but she would never forget that feeling.

"Khaleesi," he said as he bowed low and presented her with a small rolled up piece of parchment bound with string. "Ser Jorah did not tell me he was bringing me to a wedding. I am afraid my gift is a little inadequate, but I pray you will accept it anyway."

She slowly unrolled the parchment. It was a drawing; a very beautiful drawing of a girl with flowing pale hair and large sad eyes, sitting amongst merry makers and gifts at her own wedding but looking so very alone. It took her a while to realize it was her. He must have had drawn her just then!

"Do I really look so sad?" she asked. He only smiled, or perhaps smirked.

"You look like a new bride," he said simply. Yes, indeed. A new bride who did not want to be.

She watched him as he retreated to his place, seated beside Jorah among the Dothraki warriors.

Last came Illyrio's gift, and what a gift it was. At first, she'd thought they were stones, but their shapes were too uniform to be just rocks. They looked like…

"Dragon eggs?" she whispered, hardly daring to believe it, hardly daring to touch them. How long had it been since anyone had beheld a dragon egg?

"From Asshai, where they have lain in waiting for so long that they have turned into stone," said Illyrio. "But they are still beautiful."

And they were beautiful; so perfectly shaped, with patterns of scales on their shells, emulating the scales that would have been if its petrified occupants had hatched. She set them down carefully back in their box. "Thank you, Magister," she said. "It is a most kingly gift." The eggs were a reminder of what had been lost, and of why she was marrying a man whose words she did not even understand. Remembering the reason made it all a little more bearable. But still, the lemon tree outside her window beckoned. Why had she been born a Targaryen? She sometimes envied the servant girls and their petty worries and little dramas. She wanted to fall in love with a man first before she married him.

Ser Jorah's friend saluted her with his horn of sour milk, called Kumiss, and grimaced a little when he took a sip. "That was an assault to the taste buds," he remarked to Jorah before drinking it all down without a flinch. Such a fascinating man with such a strange name.

_Niklaus Mikaelson._

* * *

_**The Westerlands**_

Where the hell were they? And if being lost wasn't bad enough, she had to be lost with _Rebekah_ of all people. God, she hated that bitch. And her whole family. At least Klaus wasn't here, which was a relief for one Caroline Forbes. She wasn't sure she'd keep her sanity if he were here right now. Actually, _was_ she still sane? She looked around her. The trees were unfamiliar, but that was hardly surprising. Biology was one of her least favourite subjects and she'd never been very interested in plants. She'd neglected her cactus so badly that it had died.

In fact, her knowledge of plants, native and introduced both, was so poor, that she would not have known they were no longer in Nova Scotia if not for that castle looming in the background carved into a cliff like Petra, except Petra was in the _desert_ and they were surrounded by greenery. She _could_ tell trees from sand, at least.

"Where are we, Stefan?" she asked, glad that he was there to keep the peace, at least. If he weren't there…fine, she wouldn't have killed Rebekah because she wouldn't have known where to begin, but she certainly would have tried.

"I don't know," said Stefan. "I've never seen anything like that castle before."

"Not even in Europe?" said Caroline, who felt her hope fading more and more with each passing moment.

"No," said Rebekah. "The design is basically European, but no country in Europe has architecture like that. Besides, how many functioning castles do you _think_ there are? I mean, in the normal world."

"What other world is there besides the normal one?" demanded Caroline. No one answered her. Indeed, no one knew the answer.

Stefan did not want to go anywhere near the castle, preferring to wing it in the wild until they figured out what was going on, but during a momentous twist in the history of the world, both Caroline and Rebekah voted for seeking out the castle-owners –castellans, Rebekah said− to ask for directions.

"We could be wandering for days before we find anything that might give us even a hint as to where we are," said Rebekah. "Do you see or hear or _smell _any sign of modern civilization here? There's no pollution, no cars, not even tobacco smoke."

It was…true, Caroline realized with alarm. Where were they?! Africa? But Africa didn't look like this. She'd flipped past Discovery channel before.

"It's best to stay off the road," said Stefan. "We don't know what we're facing here."

"As if we can't deal with them," asked Rebekah.

"We're not ripping innocent people apart!" said Caroline.

"If they attack us, they're not innocent," said Rebekah.

"Is this how you always deal with new places? And you wonder why you don't have any friends."

Rebekah glared at Caroline, but one look from Stefan silenced them both. Hm…it seemed Rebekah still had feelings for him. She wasn't sure whether that was a good or bad thing.

The air was warm, and birds trilled. Again, Caroline didn't know if these were alien birds or American birds. Birds were birds. She preferred not having to drink them if she could help it. They were bony and hard to catch.

"Listen," said Rebekah suddenly.

"What?" asked Caroline. The older vampire rolled her eyes.

"Have you ever heard of this large herbivorous animal commonly known as a _horse_ before?"

Now, where was that invincible white oak stake? Caroline really wanted it now. She wasn't of Rebekah's line, so it was a-okay to kill her, right? Klaus would forgive her. He would forgive her anything if she pouted enough. At least, that was what she suspected.

But there was no white oak stake anywhere to be found, and the horsemen were upon them. She was reminded of the Legend of Sleepy Hollow. Fortunately, the horsemen all had heads.

They surrounded them, a wall of gold and red surcoats bearing a rearing cat of some sort. Lion or tiger or panther or whatever. Spears, gleaming in the afternoon sunlight, were levelled at them. Seriously, some Renaissance players took their games _far_ too seriously. Or maybe this was a movie?

"Only brigands or spies travel off the road," said a helmeted man who seemed to be the leader. "Which are you?"

"Neither," replied Stefan. "We are travellers and we are lost."

The men murmured amongst themselves. Obviously they weren't _brigands_. And who the hell called robbers brigands anyway? Wasn't that, like, a really old word only used in bodice ripper novels? Not that Caroline didn't like those –she and Elena had had this system going on where they would trade novels, but that had kinda stopped ever since Elena had gotten her own rogues to romance− but they weren't _real_. Or even remotely historically accurate.

"Look at their strange garb. They are obviously strangers," said another of the men. It was hard to tell who or what they were. Their visors hid most of their faces except for their eyes.

"Maybe we should take them to Lord Tywin," remarked another.

"Is there actually anything behind that visor of yours?" said the first man. "If you think you ought to bother Lord Tywin with such trivialities, perhaps you should just take off your own head right now. Obviously it isn't any good."

"Who's Lord Tywin?" asked Caroline.

* * *

**A/N: **New characters! Well, old friends for most of us, I'm sure.

To the guest reviewer who left a comment on Chapter 5, I'm so sorry I didn't reply to you in my last chapter! I should have but I forgot, so I'm replying now.

"_This is really engaging, loving everything so far. I was briefly disappointed not to see Damon fight Jaime, but then I realized that scene likely foreshadows a future clash when there's far more at stake, such as at the whispering wood, perhaps? If so, I can't wait to see that!_"

Damon will eventually get to clash with Jaime at some point, but it might be a while. He gets involved in a whole lot of different things and gets a bit side tracked. But considering Damon is Robb's friend and Jaime is a Lannister, they will have a bit of a confrontation of sorts.

And now, for Chapter 6's guest reviews:

"_Haha, I guess Katherine didn't get the memo about subtlety and staying under the radar! This story is awesome, can't wait for more_."

Nobody knows about vampires yet so she's quite safe. It's nice to keep the men on their toes. They can't just be scheming and plotting all the time now, can they?

"_Please let it be sandor please."_

Sorry, no can do. We need Sandor for the future!

Thank you all so much for reading and reviewing. Both myself and Aulendil really appreciate it and we're really glad that we're not the only ones enjoying the journey.


	8. Pride and Prejudice

**Disclaimer:** We don't own anything. Robb, Jon, etc. remain the property of Mr Martin and Damon, Bonnie, Katherine, and their supernatural friends are creations of LJ Smith and Julie Plec.

**Chapter 8: Pride and Prejudice**

**King's Landing**

King's Landing could not be more different from Winterfell, what with the dry warmth and the pink sandstone. The Red Keep, which was what they called their palace, dominated the horizon. Damon supposed it couldn't be called the Pink Keep. It just didn't have the same ring to it, y'know? It was the tallest building in the city, with flags of black and gold waving proudly from the battlements, beckoning to weary travellers to shelter within its halls. Of course, they were the most inhospitable arena in all of Westeros. Countless people had died in there; men, women, children, babies, unborn babies, cats, rats, puppies. And all for a spiky iron chair. So perhaps it didn't come from Ikea, but was it really worth it?

Still, he wasn't about to complain as the familiar smells of a proper metropolis hit him. Heavy perfumes mingled with roasting meats being sold by vendors in the markets and horse shit left on the pavement. There was sweat and disease and rotting garbage and raw sewage running down the gutter in the middle of the street. This might be a barren and dangerous place for some people –he worried about straight-talking Ned Stark sometimes− but for him, it was a ripe, rich hunting ground. Who would notice a few homeless people going missing? Certainly not the city guard, which seemed to exist solely to maintain order and the security of those who could afford to pay them.

The Stark household was settled in the Tower of the Hand which was, disappointingly, not shaped like a hand. Before Ned could even dismount, however, he had already received a request to attend a small council meeting, leaving Damon wondering whether there was a big council.

He helped Sansa out of the carriage, just as any gentleman ought to. She smiled prettily at him. Poor thing had terrible taste in men; him and Joffrey? Neither of them was going to be able to make her happy, although Damon supposed he was less capable of making her miserable.

Arya hopped down, as out of place as a wolf in New York City.

"It's too hot," she said.

"It will get cold enough when that winter of yours comes, Lady Arya," said Damon.

"I think it's beautiful," said Sansa. "It's so big. Don't you think so, Damon?"

The vampire smiled, remembering the tall glass spires of the Big Apple and the never-ending cacophony of Hong Kong. This was more like Florence of Venice; quaint and pretty, but not particularly bustling with financial activity. It had all the prerequisite statues and interesting architecture and a complete lack of modern urban design. He wondered what little Sansa would think of that. Sometimes, he was actually tempted to tell the Starks –gasp!− the truth.

"It has its charms," said Damon.

The girls' septa ushered them away to their rooms to freshen up before dinner, leaving Damon and Ned's squire Jory Cassel, Rodrik's son, to organise the household guard, which took all of two hours, leaving him all night to explore the city. One of the many boons of being vampire was that one did not need to sleep. Ned had very little furniture, and very few guards as well. His northern simplicity clashed with the relative luxury of the capital. He would be miserable here.

And Damon was right, as usual. Ned came back muttering things about tournaments and debts and Lannisters. It reminded Damon of Wall Street and the Global Fiscal Crisis. Hmm…Occupy King's Landing? Government bail-out? But the Lannisters _were_ the government. Robert was the Queen of England. He left Lord Stark to his mutterings. If he hadn't cared a whit about Wall Street, he didn't see why King's Landing would be any different. Adventure and hedonism awaited him out of sight of the Lord Hand.

The streets were teeming with people, rich men and beggars alike. Lanterns cast an orange glow through the winding pathways that separated the city into blocks and quarters.

The beggars, sitting beneath walls and on the steps of the narrow streets, held out bowls to him as he passed them, begging for alms as if their rheumy eyes and bad teeth could move him. He supposed that made him an asshole, but he didn't have that kind of money to spare and more importantly, he didn't really care. Unless, of course, he was hungry and needed to eat a beggar. It was probably nicer to put the poor idiots out of their misery anyway.

A small bare-footed child ducked into the shadows. Was that not the same boy who had been sweeping the leaves from the courtyard?

Moans of pleasure and the smell of sex drew him down a bustling alley and into one of the most ostentatious places he had ever beheld. Filmy silk curtains billowed in the balmy breezes, preserving no one's privacy. Naked women lounged on cushions of every colour in the rainbow and more, pouring wine for men who showered them with gold and lewd praises.

Upon seeing Damon, a few of the girls draped themselves all over him and ushered him to one of the low couches. "What can we do for you tonight, ser?" one of the women asked. She smelled of another man. Damon politely removed her from his person. No leftovers for Damon Salvatore. If he was going to have to pay, he wanted fresh.

"A man with discerning taste, I see," said a fully clothed man who emerged from behind a beaded curtain. His salt and pepper hair was cropped short, as was his beard. One look at him, and one could tell that he was no ordinary man. His clothes were impeccably made from the finest materials money could buy, in stark contrast –bad pun− to the northerners' leather tunics. Ned's ceremonial robes looked positively shabby in comparison and Robb's favourite new doublet was provincial. Yet Damon knew for certain that for this man, this was just yet another outfit for everyday use. Soldiers wore chainmail. Men like this one used clothing as both armour and weaponry.

"You must be the proprietor of this fine establishment," said Damon. "Your girls must be commended for their enthusiastic welcome."

The man chuckled. "Yes, they are very friendly and accommodating," he said. "But you are not the usual sort of client who would set foot inside one of my pleasure houses. I suspect it was more your demeanour than your gold that attracted them."

"Are you kidding me? You couldn't buy a face like mine for a million gold dragons," said the vampire. "I'm Damon."

"Daemon, as in Daemon Blackfyre?"

"Damon as in Damon _Salvatore_." He was getting sick of this Daemon Blackfyre. Sure, he might have _almost_ conquered Westeros, with 'almost' being the keyword, but how many mind-controlled hybrids had _he_ killed?

"You're not a humble man, are you, Damon Salvatore?" asked the man.

"I'm an honest man," said Damon. "I would never lie about my own worth. But that might be an alien concept to you, Lord Baelish."

Petyr Baelish, Master of coin and the head of the Westerosian version of the CIA or NSA, laughed. "Very clever of you to know who I am," he said.

"I have ears. And you obviously knew who I was before I even stepped through that door."

"What gave me away?" Baelish asked. He took Damon through a series of doorways, through curtains and past half-open doors of rooms where carnal activities of all kinds were going on, until they came to a large study at the back. Couches were arranged around the sides and cushions sat neatly upon them as if nothing untoward ever happened her. However, even the burning incense could not mask the scent of fresh sex. Two women. Interesting.

"You're just about the only man here who's fully dressed, for one," said Damon as he settled in one of the armchairs and accepted a cup of wine. "And…uh…if I were you, I'd get rid of those corpses in your backyard." The smell of putrefaction was no stranger to Damon. They were only at the very early stages of decay, having been acquired while still _very_ fresh for the requests of one or possibly more clients with very specific…requirements. Perhaps the corpses were 'made' as they had been in the Victorian era.

Baelish laughed. "There's more to you than meets the eye, Salvatore," he said. "But then, is that not always the case with sell-swords like yourself?"

* * *

**The Neck**

_He waited on the road, peering out from behind the tall grasses and the gnarled trees that lined each side, waiting for an unlucky merchant's caravan to pass by._

_The stars gave little light and the road gleamed pale while everything else was cast in shadow. The moon hid behind her veil of clouds, afraid to come out._

_Afraid of them, or of something else?_

_Around him, the men were whispering. "Hey Hood," said Toad, whose face resembled a toad's backside, not that anyone ever said it to his face. "Did you ever hear Bard talk about that creature from up north? The dead one, I mean, the one that used to be a man and then died and then started drinking blood? What was his name? Dracula or something."_

_"_Count_ Dracula," said Bard, who had once been a bard, but found robbing to be a much more lucrative profession. Yes, they were all very creative with their names. _

_Hood shook his head. Whoever thought of such an idea? Then again, it _was_ Toad, and Toad believed whatever anyone else told him if he thought it sounded interesting enough._

_"Stop yer yammerin'," hissed Chief who was, obviously, the chief of their little group of mismatched...what were they? Not brothers, certainly. They mostly cooperated because they had to. "There's a pig comin' down the path. We're gonna stick 'im."_

_As their prospective victim drew closer, Hood saw it was a girl. A very slight girl, with swaying hips and long dark hair hidden beneath a scarf. Gods, how long had it been since he'd had a woman? Too long._

_"Oooh," said Toad. "I'm thinkin' tonight's me lucky night. I'm up for some fun and games."_

_"You can _think_?" said Bard._

_They surrounded her. She was easy prey. What was one woman against twenty men? _

_"Well, I wasn't expecting a welcoming committee," she said. Why wasn't she afraid? A shudder suddenly went down his spine. Any other woman would have screamed at their sudden appearance, but then, what manner of woman would travel the back roads alone? The stars glittered in her eyes; dark pools of shadow a man could drown in._

_"Well? Cat got your tongue? Let me see..."_

_The screams died in their throats. Bard tried to run. She disappeared and reappeared in front of him before breaking his neck with one hand. Her face...her face!_

_The long teeth gleamed in what meagre light the veiled moon and stars had to offer. Blood dripped down her chin as she lifted her face from Chief's neck. His body dropped to the ground like a limp doll._

_He didn't wait to see more. He ran. Behind him, he heard Toad beseeching her, begging for mercy. "Please! Please!"_

_"Aw, don't you want to play anymore? I thought you liked fun and games."_

_Bard's tale was wrong. It wasn't Count Dracula. It was _Countess_ Dracula._

* * *

**The Wall**

Parry, feint, strike. The other boys were no match for him. They waved their swords like sticks and were more likely to cut themselves than their opponents if they were ever given sharpened steel. Ser Alisser rolled his eyes as the boy scrambled to his feet, holding his hand over his bleeding nose. Jon risked a smirk and gazed at the circle of recruits surrounding him. "Next!" barked Alisser, who would have liked nothing more than to see Jon Snow beaten.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jon saw Elena passing by the practise yard with a basketful of onions and carrots for this evening's meal. No matter how unattractive she tried to make herself by dressing in men's clothing and tying up her dark hair in a messy twist at the nape of her neck to try and blend in with the brothers, she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever beheld. He could never forget the moment when he had first seen her, eyes luminous and cheeks red from the cold. No; if her goal had been to blend in with the rabble which now called itself the Night's Watch, she had failed miserably.

She caught his eye and smiled at him briefly. That was enough to make him lower his guard, allowing the recruit called Rast to strike him hard enough to bruise. Jon whirled around to block the next blow. Rast was strong, but undisciplined, and his swings were wild and inaccurate. His blade slipped down Jon's, who managed to trap it with the guard and then wrenched it out of his hand.

"Well, you have just proven you are the least useless person here, _Lord_ Snow," said Ser Alisser. His tone was mocking, and even though he had not been here for long, Jon had had to suppress many urges to break his nose too. It would probably have improved the aesthetics of his face. "Go and clean up, the lot of you, and then report to the kitchens. Try not to cut off your fingers with the vegetable knives."

The recruits trudged away one by one, trailing their swords behind them like men who had been defeated again and again. Which, of course, they had. There was a sense of satisfaction in that. They were not worthy of the Night's Watch and he had just proved it.

So no, he had not expected it when they attacked him in the recruits' armoury. And, having just disarmed, he was in a very bad position.

They pinned him to the wall and held a knife to his throat. The edge was not as sharp as it could have been, but it was perfectly capable of slitting him from ear to ear. "You broke my nose," snarled the tall thick-necked boy. Grenn, Jon remembered. Well, it sounded a bit more like "You broke by dose", with his nose being truly broken and out of commission.

"It looks better on you," scoffed Jon. They pressed the blade closer to his neck. He would not show fear; not to these rapists and murderers and thieves. He was a Stark of Winterfell, his father had told him. Starks did not bow to rabble.

"You think you're so much better than the rest of us? I wonder if you'll bleed if−" Grenn did not get to finish his threat before he was flung away and slammed against a rack of practise swords by none other than Elena herself.

"What do you think you're doing?" she demanded. Behind her, Tyrion Lannister stood in the doorway. He shared a trait with all diplomats and courtiers; his expression gave no hint as to what he was thinking.

"Get out of the way, wench," said Rast, who still held Jon against the wall.

With movements so graceful and almost faster than the eye could follow, she had _him_ pinned against the wall instead, her arm against his throat and almost cutting off his air. For the briefest moment, her eyes seemed to darken, but it happened so quickly that Jon was not sure he had actually seen it. "Call me 'wench' again and I won't be so merciful," she said. She glared at the remaining man who still held Jon, a thief by the name of Pyp. Jon vaguely registered that he could have easily dealt with the thief, but he was too in awe and too outraged to act. Pyp scowled as he slowly let go and stepped away, unwilling to be the third recipient of her wrath.

"I didn't need your help," said Jon when she finally released Rast, who slipped away as quickly as he could.

"Oh really?" she said.

"I can handle myself. I don't need you to rescue me." It wasn't completely a lie. "They couldn't have done anything to me. If they did anything, Lord Mormont would have had their heads on spikes as an example. They're just jealous because I'm better than them."

"Are you? In what way?" Her voice was low, as if she were trying to rein in her temper.

"I'm a better fighter and a better man. I am no brigand or murderer or rapist."

"You are very quick to judge, are you not, _my lord_?" He almost winced at her tone. No, she was not happy with him at all. But what right had she to be displeased?

"It's the truth."

"Let me tell you another truth. Not everyone has had the benefit of being trained to fight by the best teachers money can buy since they were eight!"

"Five."

"That's beside the point. You may be a better fighter and you may not be a criminal, but you're an entitled, arrogant, conceited, spoiled little lordling who thinks he's better than everyone else just because he was born in a castle instead of a stable. If you want respect here on the Wall, Jon Snow, you'll have to earn it, and as far as I'm concerned, you haven't."

With that, she snatched up her basket of laundry and stormed out the door, leaving the men staring at her retreating back in silence.

"These men will one day watch your back, Snow," said Tyrion. His face still showed absolutely no expression. It was rather unnerving, as if he were talking to a statue or someone who was not really alive. "It would be in your best interests not to make them your enemies. If you insist on having enemies, my father always said he preferred his dead and buried."

Jon looked around the small dark armoury, with the broken sword racks and worn shields. All old, all dilapidated, and no one cared. They didn't even care enough to send grain. And why should they? This was the asshole of the world, where men came to die long slow deaths of cold and cynicism. Outside, it was beginning to snow, and Alisser was yelling at the next bunch of unfortunate recruits. "Everyone knew what this place was, but no one told me anything except you," he said to the dwarf. "My father knew, and he left me here to rot anyway."

"Grenn's father left him too, outside a farmhouse when he was three," said Tyrion suddenly. Jon glanced at the thick-necked boy whose nose was still bloodied. The other boy scowled and looked down. Was that shame? Anger? Why should he care?

"Pyp chose the Wall rather than losing his hand after he was caught stealing a wheel of cheese," the dwarf continued. The thief, too, looked away. "His little sister had not eaten in three days. None of them had been trained by a master at arms like your Ser Rodrik. I doubt any of them had held a real sword before they came here, or even eaten a full meal."

Jon wanted to ask why he was telling him all these stories, but he knew exactly why Tyrion was doing it. Knowing these stories…it changed the way things looked. Men came to the Wall because they had nowhere else to go. Perhaps…

"One more thing," said the dwarf. He handed him a letter. "Your brother Bran is awake."

* * *

**King's Landing**

The Hand's Tournament. Ned rubbed his temples. Really, Robert? Was this necessary? He certainly wanted no tournaments. In fact, he had never liked them, and it didn't even have anything to do with his sister or Rhaegar or that cursed title of the Queen of Love and Beauty. He had not been in King's Landing a week before his desk was inundated with matters of state. Salvatore had suggested using his waste basket as an 'in-tray' for documents. Ned was half considering it. But he had a duty to Robert and to the realm. Whatever the king wanted, the king got, and if that was a tournament that would put him a further eighty thousand gold dragons in debt to the Lannisters, then so be it. Robert couldn't care less about money. He never had. Even during the Rebellion, it had been others who had taken care of the figures.

And then there was the troubling matter of Jon Arryn's death. Had it really been a disease? His mentor had always been a healthy man. How could he have been taken so quickly? And Lysa's letter about the Lannisters, and the attack on Bran…

Grand Maester Pycelle had said Jon had been looking into a book of lineages and genealogies of the great houses of Westeros. Said book now sat beside the pile of paperwork awaiting his perusal. The tome was thick, with the distinct smell of vellum, both decaying and new, for it was added to each time a son was born to one of the great houses. His name was there, as was his father's and brother's before him. Robb's was after his, along with Bran and Rickon.

He flicked through some of the pages. The cover alone, faded and flaking with age with its gold embossed lettering almost completely rubbed away by generations of readers' hands, was enough to intimidate most people, to say nothing of the content. What had Jon wanted with it?

It mixed into a confused jumble until he hardly knew what was going on inside his head, much less what was happening outside it. He needed air. The atmosphere of King's Landing was stifling, and it wasn't just the heat. Sometimes he felt as if he couldn't breathe, as if there was a weight on his chest crushing the life out of him. Was Cat right? Should he have refused Robert's request? After all, there were more capable men who could do this job. But there weren't other men who would protect Robert Baratheon as Eddard Stark would…

"Milord, Lord Baelish is here to see you."

Jory's voice jolted him out of his thoughts. Ned remembered Baelish. His brother had spoken of him once in jest, a long long time ago, back before the whole Lyanna-Rhaegar disaster, before Westeros had burned with war, before his whole existence had shattered. How Brandon had sneered at the little boy who had tried to fight for the girl he adored. And now Brandon was dead and Littlefinger was the Master of Coin.

"I never got to congratulate you on your appointment as Hand," said Baelish once Jory had been dismissed. "Come, take a walk with me, Lord Hand. You look like you could use some air."

Ned wanted to say he was no wilting maiden, but the truth was, he _did_ need some air. Fresh air. Cold air. He'd have better luck finding a yellow rose in Winterfell than finding cold air in King's Landing, at least until winter came, which it always did in time.

He allowed Littlefinger to lead him into the gardens. It was so tamed that the plants didn't resemble plants. They had been cut into shapes representing the sigils of all the great houses. There was the wolf, a snarling lion, a rearing stag…no dragon, of course. The Targaryens were gone.

"I hear you're reading a boring book," Baelish remarked. The slight man who now walked beside him bore little resemblance to the boy in Cat and Brandon's stories. The years changed everyone; they made some men decay while other men grew. If it were possible, Ned would give just about anything to be young again. He was still strong –for thirty seven was not so old− but sometimes, after long periods of exertion, he would find himself short of breath. He used to be able to tire Robb out in sparring. Now Robb tired him out. And Sansa and Arya tired him out even more quickly.

"Did Pycelle tell you?" asked Ned. He probably did. "He talks too much."

"He never stops," said Littlefinger. "Have you heard of Ser Hugh of the Vale?"

Who? Ned shook his head. There were too many petty knights in Westeros. Did Littlefinger expect him to know all of them?

"It's not surprising, given he was only recently knighted," said Petyr. "He was only a squire until his master's untimely death. Jon Arryn's squire."

Ned paused. "Why was he knighted?" he asked.

Littlefinger smiled. Along the path, gardeners prepared the land for planting new things. Sansa had taken a liking to carnations. Other servants tidied up the hedges. Ned ignored them as he waited for an answer. Littlefinger remained silently smiling.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Your wife wrote to me before you arrived," said Petyr. "I promised Cat I would help you. I keep my promises."

* * *

Well, well, not in King's Landing for one week, and the Hand's Tower was already inundated with spies. Damon kept a note of everyone Baelish pointed out to Ned, mentally adding to his list of people to use and exploit and distrust. Baelish did not name _all_ the spies, of course. Some of his remained discreetly tucked away in shadowy corners, invisible to almost every eye. Others, particularly little birds trapped in a big fat spider's web, he had not noticed before. There were septas, gardeners, cleaners…anyone and anything could be a spy. These people didn't need bugs and high tech gadgets to gather information. It might have been a bit slower, and the spies might die more often, but people were cheap.

The list could possibly also serve as a menu. After all, if a spy disappeared, their masters would assume they had been caught by the spied upon.

And why would Ned be reading a boring book, of all things, and why would Baelish care to mention it? In the past, Ned had kept his reading to documents and letters and Damon had never seen him with a book before. He kept his spot by the door, pretending to be bored and chewing on an apple. The two men might be talking softly enough to evade human ears, but to vampire ones, their words could not be clearer.

"Is there someone in your service you trust completely?" Baelish asked of Ned.

"Yes," said Ned.

"The wiser answer was no, milord."

They spoke more of sending a man to question this Hugh of the Vale, and about an armourer Ned's mentor had visited before his death. Then Baelish took his leave.

Ned summoned Jory –Damon was a little insulted that he had not sent for him instead− and told him to find Ser Hugh, leaving Damon trying to find a time to slip into Ned's study to look at that boring book. Or perhaps he could seek out that armourer. Or perhaps…

A little shadow tried to slip by him. Said little shadow did not remain a shadow for very long.

"And just where do you think you're going, milady?" Damon asked as he grabbed Arya by the back of her shirt. "And why are you in Lord Robb's cast-offs?"

"Shut up, Salvatore," said Arya, sounding quite a bit like the above-mentioned older brother. "I'm trying to hide from Septa Mordane. She's trying to make me embroider the sigils of every single damned house!"

"Oooh, wash your mouth out, little lady," said Damon. "I don't think your father would like to hear you curse, and he's not quite out of earshot yet."

"You try embroidering stags and lions and wolves and fish and not curse," said Arya. "I want to learn swordplay, Damon."

"We don't always get what we want," said Damon with a smile. Not particularly true, in his case, but he didn't want any more people accusing him of being a corrupting influence on Lord Stark's children. Particularly not the girls. Robb he could get away with, and Jon did not have the prerequisite sense of humour.

"Well, I'm the lady, and you're just the guardsman," said Arya. "So my word is your command. Let. Me. Go."

"You forgot the magic word," teased Damon. Oh, he loved riling people up, and Arya Stark was _so _easy to rile. Kind of like Jon, actually.

"_Now_."

He sighed. "Two more chances," he said. "Come on, milady, before Septa Mordane comes. You know she will catch up."

"Father!"

Damon turned around. Oops.

"Damon Salvatore," said Ned. "I might have known. Arya, what are you doing in your brother's clothes? Does Robb know his shirt is missing?"

"He gave this to Jon years ago," said Arya. "And Jon left it behind when he left."

"That is not the point, Arya," said Ned. "Why are you not in the solar with your sister and septa?"

"Because I've been in there for the past four hours stitching and undoing my stitches. I'm never going to get the Tyrell rose right. Do you know how many petals a rose has, Father? That's right, neither do I."

They heard Septa Mordane's voice coming closer and closer, calling Arya's name in that disapproving tone of hers. Damon and Ned exchanged glances.

"Go to your room, Arya," said Ned. "We'll talk later."

"If there's nothing else, milord−" began Damon, but he was interrupted by Jory's return.

"Lord Stark," he said.

"What did Ser Hugh say?" asked Ned.

Aha! Here was the key to all the secrets of the boring book. He wouldn't even have to read it himself!

"He said he was a knight, and he wouldn't speak with anyone who wasn't," said Jory.

"Did you tell him I sent you?" asked Ned.

"I did, and he said he would speak with you personally, but not with me," said Jory, who almost seemed irritated. Considering Jory was one of the easiest going men anyone had ever met, then Ser Hugh had to be a downright dick. Almost as bad as Damon himself.

"Why didn't you just say you were a knight?" asked Damon.

"Because I told him I wasn't," said Jory.

"And why would you do that?"

"He called me 'ser', and I said I was no 'ser'."

Ned sighed. "I will speak with him myself," he said.

"Wait, milord," said Damon. "Do you think it wise? Why would you, the Hand of the King, speak with a lowly Ser Nobody in person?"

Ned seemed thoughtful. "How good are you at lying, Salvatore?" he asked.

He had _no_ idea.

* * *

**A/N: **It's slowly getting there. The changes and ripples in history are slowly accumulating. You know how you shake a can of soda and the pressure builds inside but you can't really see it until you open it and then it all sprays out? This is like that. Thank you to everyone who reviewed, favourited, and followed!


	9. Persuasion

**Disclaimer:** We don't own anything. Robb, Jon, etc. remain the property of Mr Martin and Damon, Bonnie, Katherine, and their supernatural friends are creations of LJ Smith and Julie Plec.

**Chapter 9: Persuasion**

**Castle Black**

A knock came on the door as she sat by the fire, passing a needle through the fabric and pulling the thread tight again and again. "Come in," said Elena without looking up from her mending. It never ever seemed to end. The moment she fixed one garment, another would be torn. Not that she minded making herself useful but sometimes she just got overwhelmed by the sheer amount of mending that needed to be done. Okay, maybe it was because she had to unpick as many stitches as she sewed –this was not like darning a sock or two occasionally or replacing a button.

The door creaked and Tyrion Lannister stepped inside. Snow dusted his rich cloak of velvet and fur. "That was quite a display in there," he said. He saluted the crackling fire, holding his hands to the flames and letting the warmth thaw them. "Very impressive."

"And stupid, too, you were going to say?"

"I swear, I sometimes wonder if you can read my mind," he teased gently.

"I know it was stupid," said Elena. She tied off the thread and broke it with her teeth. "Jon Snow was right. I shouldn't have interfered, but I saw him in danger, and…" She sighed. "I shouldn't have said all those things to him."

"What are you doing here on the Wall, Elena?" asked Tyrion. "It is clear you are no common girl." He sat down and poured himself a drink from the pewter jug she always kept on her table. "Water? One would have thought the head cook would have had a secret stash of some sort."

"I'm the second cook, not the head cook," said Elena. "He most certainly has moonshine, although I wouldn't drink it if I were you. But you did not come here to talk to me about illicit alcohol, did you, Lord Tyrion?"

"I want to know where you learned to fight like that," said the dwarf.

"I live on the Wall. Even idiots can learn by osmosis." Shit. _Osmosis_?

"I am not familiar with that term," said Tyrion. A crease appeared between his dark eyebrows, so uncharacteristic of a Lannister. Or so she'd heard. She'd only ever seen one Lannister before, so she couldn't really say.

"It's the act of passively absorbing something," said Elena. "You know, particles moving from an area of high concentration to an area of low concentration through a semi-permeable membrane−" She paused. Was she _supposed_ to know all this?

"And you still want to convince me that you _are_ a commoner?"

"I'm not a lady if that's what you mean."

"See, I'm not convinced of that. You read, you write, you use large words that even I have never heard before, and you fight like a woman trained to kill. Farmers don't teach their daughters that."

She stayed silent and listened to the hollow howls of the wind outside and the sound of cracks appearing in the wood as the heat split it in the fire, remembering a time when she had had no idea how to fight, when she had not even thought that Westeros existed, when the biggest concern in her life had been how she ought to break up with Matt.

Tyrion stood. "You can't run from your past forever, Elena," he said. "And you shouldn't; not a woman like you."

* * *

Jon was cutting up carrots when Elena came in and donned her apron. She made no overture towards him, and he was not going to make the first move. What was there to say, anyway? She thought him a little lordling and unworthy of respect. Well, she could think that. Why should he care?

But her words stung. He had thought there had been…never mind. He was to be a brother of the Night's Watch. Nothing could have happened anyway, even if she had regarded him highly, which she didn't. Although she had looked so very beautiful when she had been angry, and he was almost angry at himself for being angry with her…that didn't even make sense.

He finished up his carrots and moved onto the small hill of onions. His eyes watered, and he was struggling to see through his tears as the gases stung his eyes. He never thought vegetables could be worth hating –except tasteless soggy cabbage boiled until it was grey− but he now hated onions.

Elena suddenly slammed Rast's hand onto the main table and planted a knife right between his third and fourth fingers, barely missing the web of skin connecting the digits.

The knife quivered as it stood upright on the table, mirroring the movement of Rast's legs. "You touch me again, and I will cut off your balls and serve them up to you medium-rare with a side of mashed potatoes and gravy," said Elena. "Have I made myself clear?"

Silence. For the first time since their fight, Grenn and Jon exchanged glances. They were united in their wonder of this woman, and the very disturbing question; would she actually do it? As much as Rast deserved it, none of them actually wanted to have his balls, cooked medium-rare or otherwise, served anywhere near mashed potatoes. It sounded like a most unpalatable dish and it would most definitely have ruined the potatoes. Besides, the serving would be undoubtedly very small.

The rapist nodded, his eyes flicking from the knife still quivering between his fingers, and the furious face of the beautiful woman who had completely emasculated him before all his peers. It didn't matter whether he still had balls or not.

"Go and cut up some more firewood," Elena said. "The shed is empty and needs to be filled."

Once Rast was gone, she glared at all the rest of them. Jon tried to turn his attentions back to his onions, but he kept looking at her until she could finally stand it no longer. "What?" she asked. Some of the anger still remained, but most of her temper seemed to have dissipated. In fact, she seemed almost embarrassed.

"Would you really have done it?" Pyp blurted out suddenly. He was in charge of stirring a large pot of something to stop the food from sticking to the bottom, but he, like Jon, had paused in his work.

"Yes, no, maybe," said Elena.

"Threats are only good if you carry them out," remarked Jon. He reached out to pull the knife out of the table. It was deeply embedded. He tried harder, wondering at what sort of strength someone would have to possess to stab wood that deeply. Elena seemed so delicate, being just a little taller than Sansa and even slimmer, with fine wrists more suited to playing music and embroidering cushions than defending herself against rapists on the Wall.

"You people really don't get the concept of soft power, do you?" asked Elena.

Grenn and Pyp looked at her blankly, clearly not understanding at all. Jon finally managed to remove the knife.

"I don't think there was anything soft about what you did," he said, returning the ruined instrument to her. The tip had been broken off, so violently had she plunged it into the thick wood. "Off the record, I wouldn't have stopped you if you had cut off Rast's balls and served them up to him medium rare with a side of mashed potatoes and gravy, as long as you only served them to him."

"You're impossible," said Elena.

* * *

**The Westerlands**

The man took off his helmet, revealing his shoulder-length tousled blond hair. Caroline realized with a start that he was not very much older than her, and he was…pretty hot. In that arrogant, jerk-like way that had been patented by Klaus.

"I am Daemon Lannister," he said.

Oh, so his name was _Daemon_, was it? That explained a great deal. Perhaps all the Damons and Daemons in the world had a lot in common as far as personalities were concerned.

"I think we should just kill them, Daemon," said another of the knights who had kept his helmet on. His voice cracked in the middle of his sentence as it tried to figure out whether it was the voice of a boy or the voice of a man. How old was he? Thirteen?

"Now, is that any way to treat ladies, brother? Why not shove their heads into burning coals while we're at it?" said Daemon. "If you really want blood on your hands, I believe Ser Gregor is looking for a squire."

He turned back to the three travellers. "But then, what to do with you?"

"If you know what's good for you, you'd leave us right alone," said Rebekah.

"It would be remiss of me not to offer you the best of Lannister hospitality now that fortune has seen fit to arrange our meeting." Daemon smiled as he said this.

"Well, since you're being so kind…" said Rebekah. Caroline tried her best not to roll her eyes. It wasn't a very nice thing to do. But seriously, Rebekah, did she have to flirt with every cute boy she came across?

Yes, she probably did, because she was insecure and shallow and spoiled.

Daemon offered Rebekah a hand and hauled her up behind him in his saddle. Caroline shared a horse with the young knight who had suggested killing them, Daemon's brother Jorge –who was fourteen− and Stefan was left to walk. These people clearly thought women were delicate little flowers that couldn't do a thing. It was so medieval!

'Look around you, Caroline. This is _probably_ a medieval society,' she thought to herself. The horse jolted her up and down so badly she thought her arse had gone numb by the time they rode through the city gates, which were, on their own, several storeys high. Casterly Rock, if Daemon was to be believed, was one of the greatest cities Westeros had ever seen. It sat above a series of gold mines which were the source of his family's immense wealth, and thus power.

He was the nephew of Lord Tywin Lannister, the tyrant who ruled this place with an iron fist –golden fist?− and mostly he talked about all his family's achievements, which were numerous, boring, and hard to remember. Caroline felt it would be fair to say Daemon thought Lannisters made the sun rise and set each day.

Instead of taking them to a hotel or an inn or someplace nice where they could refresh themselves, Daemon brought them directly to the barracks.

Gleaming armour and flashing shields almost blinded her as they came to a large open area. Never before had Caroline seen so many men moving in unison. Oh, what the hell, she'd never seen that many _people_ before in her life, not even at the Fall Out Boy concert at the Virginia Beach Amphitheatre. And that had been jam packed. Rows upon rows of spears and horses were all lined up in the neat formations, reminding her of movies about Roman centurions.

Watching over them was an old man on a horse. His back was straight, as if he were a much younger man, and his pale blue eyes betrayed no emotion.

"Very impressive," said Rebekah. "Men moving and walking together in rows and lines. Like lemmings."

"I take it you're not really that impressed, Mistress Rebekah," said Daemon.

Rebekah gave a feminine snort. "Even sheep can do this if you give them enough incentive."

Finally, the old man turned to look at them. It had to be the lemmings and sheep comparisons. No military commander would have appreciated them. His armour was even more polished than his men's, with overlapping plates that made him look like some sort of lizard. Or armadillo. No, he probably wouldn't appreciate that comparison either.

"Daemon," he said. His voice was deep and strong, reminding Caroline of a pipe organ in a concert hall.

For a second, Daemon looked as if he was about to panic, but then he composed himself and rode to where the old man sat on his horse.

"Lord Tywin," he said as he dismounted and bowed, all the while motioning for them to do the same.

"I see you've brought in stragglers," said Tywin. Yep, Caroline could believe a man like that ruled a city. The president himself wasn't as impressive. Or as rude. She was _so_ not a straggler!

"Hey, mister, it's not like we actually wanted to be here," she said before she remembered Stefan had said to let him do all the talking. Oops?

Tywin looked down at her. There was still no expression on his face, but there were far too many wrinkles for him to have been botoxed up to the eyebrows. He probably didn't have botox anyway.

"You have a sharp tongue," he said.

Why, thank you.

"But you'll need something sharper if you want to survive here."

Nope, fangs not allowed, although it was very tempting to show him her teeth. Tywin Lannister turned back to Daemon, who was shuffling from foot to foot nervously, as if he were activating his fight-or-flight response. It was veering towards flight. Caroline supposed she ought to be scared of the old man, but…she just wasn't. Maybe she just didn't have very good self-preservation instincts. After all, she'd dated a werewolf _and_ Damon and she wasn't afraid of the most powerful vampire-werewolf-hybrid-thing that ever lived when she really should be.

"Look, maybe I was rude, my lord or whatever it is I'm supposed to call you, but we are _not_ stragglers."

"Do not test my patience," said Tywin. "I am not known for it."

Caroline had another smart retort on the tip of her tongue, but Stefan clapped his hand over her mouth.

"Forgive her, my lord. She is tired after a long journey and knows not what she is saying," he said.

Why did he sound all Old Testament biblical now?

Tywin looked him up and down. "Daemon, take our guests to their quarters."

"The dungeons?" asked Jorge.

The Lannister patriarch's eyes flicked towards the boy's pimply face before turning to Daemon. "And send your brother to me," he added.

* * *

**King's Landing**

Damon arrived at the tourney grounds just as they were carrying the corpse away on a stretcher. Oops. He had thought he would get himself knightly armour and then sign up in the tourney first. Forty thousand gold dragons; he could do with forty thousand extra gold dragons. Frankly, he'd never been so poor in his entire existence. Visa gold cards didn't mean anything in Westeros. They only did the real deal.

"Well, that's that then," he remarked to Jory as they followed Ned and an older knight into the tent where the Silent Sisters, the undertakers of Westeros, were making the body Ser Hugh of the Vale pretty again.

"It's just his luck, I guess, drawing a straw to go against the Mountain," said Jory.

"Or maybe he just sucked," said Damon.

Jory gave him a look but could think of no response to that.

"How was the match chosen?" asked Ned as he watched the sisters sew up the wound on the dead man's neck. Blood still seeped from the gash. Hmm…Damon was getting a bit peckish now. It was a pity that pretty Ser Hugh would never be on the menu. Oh well, there was a tournament, and there were tourists here to watch the blood sports, and there were still plenty of beggars on the streets. People who complained about the American government's lack of social welfare ought to see Robert Baratheon's policy on the matter.

"Straws were drawn, as usual," said the older knight. His name was Ser Barristan Selmy, and he was Jaime Lannister's boss. He had to be about sixty, but he walked like a man of thirty, and according to rumours, he was _still_ the best swordsman in Westeros. Damon wondered if he could possibly rile up the man enough for him to duel him. But nah. Bullying old men wasn't very nice. It was almost like kicking a puppy, and he was no Joffrey.

"Yes, but who held the straws?" said Ned, partly to himself and partly to…well, himself. He shouldn't talk aloud to himself in Westeros. It wasn't safe. Although, if he were the type to keep a journal, Ned Stark would be the man who would leave it around for the world to read. Kind of like Stefan. They certainly shared some suspiciously similar traits.

Well, it was back to square one, but he would leave that for next week. This week, he had a tournament to win.

* * *

_**The Twins**_

_It wasn't half as impressive as London Tower Bridge, but it did what it was supposed to do. Then again, if there had been a large enough log, it would have done the same job. The much celebrated bridge of the Twins wasn't even wide enough to allow for four lanes of traffic. She supposed it would be easy to defend, and Westeros didn't seem to be prosperous enough to have traffic congestion issues, because this was a true bottleneck. _

"_Halt!" said one of the guards. Freys. They smelled like day-old microwave fish dinners. "There is a toll for crossing this bridge." _

_She sighed. Well, she ought to have guessed. Walder Frey had a reputation for being lecherous, miserly, and every unflattering adjective in both the Oxford and Merriam-Webster dictionaries. She pulled out a copper from her money pouch. _

_The guard raised an eyebrow. _

"_That's not enough," he said. _

"_But that is all I have, ser," she said, widening her eyes just a little bit, as if she were afraid of him, which she wasn't. Not in the least. Frankly, he would have made for a mid-morning snack at best, although there was some doubt as to whether he was fit for vampire consumption. _

"_Not quite…" said the guard, eyeing her appreciatively. His fellow guard, an older man, rolled his eyes. Perhaps some Freys actually took their jobs seriously. The younger man ignored him and stroked her cheek with fingers tipped with dirt-darkened nails. Well, if he wanted to play _that_ game…_

"_Well, ser," she said. "The other side of the river seems to offer a little more…privacy." _

_He smiled. "There's a clever girl." _

_She was clever indeed. It was time for lunch anyway. _

_They found him the next day, floating face down in the river, his throat ripped open by teeth or claws or something else entirely new. And they remembered the tales of a monster called Dracula._

* * *

**Castle Black**

Jon Snow moved so beautifully and gracefully. Elena could not help but stop and watch from one of the wooden balconies outside the kitchens which overlooked the practise yard. He didn't see her. Indeed, he seemed to be making an effort to not look in the direction of the kitchens. How was it possible for someone to look so handsome in that hideously bulky practise armour? Although, he'd probably look better without it.

But he was…up himself. So…proud, and conceited, and arrogant, and dismissive of the feelings of others. Personality counted for a lot, and he hadn't even said thank you after she had saved him from getting his throat slashed.

She leaned against the rail, which was still covered in ice after last night. Her warmth melted it and icy water seeped through her sleeves, startling her back into reality. What was she doing? Meals needed planning, laundry needed drying, socks needed darning, house histories needed remembering; there were a billion things she ought to be doing right now. She didn't have time to watch Jon Snow teach the boys−wait, _teach_ the boys?

She took a closer look. Yes, he was teaching them, and not just beating them to the ground again and again and again while Ser Alisser watched on as if this was his own Coliseum. Grenn actually remembered he had feet now, and Pyp wasn't doing an Irish jig anymore. Jon was telling them how standing on their side meant their enemy had a smaller target to hit and was demonstrating slowly for them. Ser Alisser huffed and crossed his arms as his job was slowly usurped by a teenager.

Because, although it was sometimes hard to remember, Jon was younger than she was. With a start, she realized she'd thought of him as being a man rather than a boy, as if he were in the same league as Stefan or Damon.

Although, when it came to conceitedness and arrogance, he was nowhere _near_ Damon Salvatore levels.

"It seems he might have taken our words into consideration after all," came a voice from behind her.

"Lord Tyrion, don't you have better things to do than talk to a cook?"

"Now, why would I forgo the chance for your delightful company, Mistress Elena?" said Tyrion as he joined her. His head barely stood above the railing.

"I think most men would question the delightfulness of my company."

"In case you have not noticed, I am not most men," said Tyrion. "You hurt his pride, you know."

"You know what he can do with his pride?"

Tyrion laughed. "You don't really mean that, do you?" he said. "I've seen the way you look at him. Not that I blame you."

What? How _did_ she look at Jon Snow?

She straightened herself and resolved to go back inside the kitchens, where she would _not_ think about Jon Snow, but found herself walking down the stairs towards the practise yards where the boys were just finishing up. Jon paused when she approached him, but he said nothing. His dark eyes betrayed very little. She took a deep breath.

"You did well today," she said.

He nodded, but still said nothing. God, did he have to make it so awkward?

"Look…about yesterday…I shouldn't have said all those things to you."

The corners of his mouth turned up just a little. "Is that an apology, Mistress Elena? Because I didn't hear anything that sounded like 'sorry'."

He was impossible!

"Don't push it, Jon Snow," she said, emphasizing her point by prodding him in the chest ineffectively through the thick practise armour. He seized her hand as she did so and pulled her against him unexpectedly. She was so surprised that she couldn't pull away in time, and then she realized she didn't actually want to. His hand was warm from activity, and there were beads of sweat cooling on his forehead. She realized how long his dark eyelashes were, how nice it would probably feel to tangle her fingers in his dark curls, how he had perfectly formed lips which were now slightly parted, how heavy their breaths were becoming…

Someone cleared his throat. Both of them leapt apart as if cold water had been poured on them.

"Lord Commander," said Jon. Elena simply stood there, wanting the ground to open up and swallow her whole. What had she been thinking? Obviously she hadn't been thinking about anything at all; not the fact that they were in public, not the fact that she still harboured feelings for someone else…

"You're on watch tonight, Snow," said Mormont, as if he hadn't just seen them _almost_ about to kiss. Behind him, Benjen raised an eyebrow but said nothing. They left them both standing in the middle of the practise yards, not sure of how to react. Around them, the other recruits had formed a wide circle and they were all staring.

"I should go and prepare," said Jon.

"I have food to cook," Elena stammered at the same time.

"So…until later, then?"

She nodded. "So…we're good? Friends?"

"You want to be friends with me even though I am…what was it that you called me? An entitled arrogant conceited spoiled little lordling who thinks he's better than everyone else just because he was born in a castle instead of a stable?" He smirked at her.

"You remembered every word?"

"I don't forget an insult. You owe me, Elena Gilbert."

* * *

It was hard to see through the swirls of snow that just kept falling from above as he and Benjen climbed out of the winch elevator. It obscured what was below, as if there was an endless chasm right at their feet. The flurries danced before his eyes, like little animals inviting him to join them in play. Snowflakes stuck in his hair and beard. Snow had never been so beautiful before.

"I wanted to be here when you first saw it," said Benjen.

"It's beautiful," said Jon. The vast blackness held so many opportunities. For a moment, he felt as if he were at the top of the world. Perhaps he was, for he knew of no higher place than the Wall, save for perhaps the Eyrie.

He let his eyes take in the vastness of the Wall that stretched to either side of him, but then he stopped. Was that someone standing on the edge, being buffeted this way and that by the wind? He didn't even need good visibility to see who it was, for there was only one girl on the Wall.

"Elena!" he cried.

"What do you think you're doing?" shouted Benjen.

"I'm flying!" replied Elena, turning only to look at them briefly. Her arms were outstretched, as if she thought they were wings. Out here, with her cloak dusted with snow and her dark hair streaming behind her, she almost did look as if she could fly. But he knew she couldn't.

"Come back down here now!" shouted Jon. "You'll fall to your death!"

"The wind is blowing me back from the edge," said Elena. "I'm not going to fall unless I jump." The wind reddened her cheeks and snow stuck to her long eyelashes. She closed her eyes and remained exactly where she was, not quite falling, but not quite "flying" either.

"Where is she from?" Jon asked his uncle.

"I am more interested in where that alcohol is from," said Benjen. "Obviously she imbibed some. Plenty of it, I would say."

"I am not drunk , First Ranger, although the cook _does_ have a stash of moonshine. I would rather clean floors with it than drink it though." She finally did come back down to safety, much to Jon's relief. With shock, he realized how much she had become part of the Wall for him. He couldn't imagine it without her and all her strangeness and threats and warm smiles that made the wind feel less icy for the rest of the day. He wanted to run his hand through her hair and dislodge the ice crystals that had lodged in it. He wanted to reach out and touch her face to see if her skin was as soft and smooth as it looked. He−

What was he _thinking_?

"I see you will not be lonely on your first watch even if I leave you here," said Benjen. He clapped Jon on the shoulder. "Just as well. I have to prepare for my journey." He turned to Elena. "Are the supplies ready?"

She nodded. "The meat and oatcakes should keep you going for several months if you supplement them with hunting."

"Where are you going?" asked Jon.

"Beyond the Wall," said Benjen. "There have been attacks on several wildling villages and Mormont has asked me to investigate. I ride at dawn."

"Then let me come with you," said Jon.

Benjen shook his head. "Not this time," he said. He patted Jon on the arm. "When you are a ranger, then we'll talk."

He left Jon and Elena standing in the swirling snow. "He always says that," said Jon.

"I don't know very much about the Night's Watch, but I think you have to swear your oaths first before they let you go gallivanting off on adventures beyond the Wall," said Elena.

"When I was young, and Uncle Benjen would come to Winterfell, he'd tell me all these stories about his adventures in the north. Now that I think about it, half of them probably weren't true, but I want to see it with my own eyes anyway." Jon peered into the distance, as if staring hard enough was going to make everything come into focus.

Elena paused. "I always meant to ask. Why did you come to the Wall? You're not like Pyp and Grenn and the others. Why choose the Wall, of all things?"

"What's my name?"

She laughed. "Are you having me on, Jon Snow?"

"Snow," said Jon. "I'm a bastard."

"I don't see what that has to do with anything," said Elena.

"I came here because it was the only way I could carve a place for myself. There was no other path I could take."

"So you came here because you felt you had no choice?"

"I don't."

"There's always a choice," said Elena. "You can choose to follow the path society expects you to take, or you can forge your own path and do what you believe in. So let me ask you again. Why do you want to join the Night's Watch?"

For honour, for a chance to prove himself, for a place in the world, to be remembered. But suddenly, all of that seemed…meaningless. Hadn't Damon pointed out there were other ways? And…did he really want just that? It didn't seem nearly enough. All of a sudden, the darkness beyond the Wall felt just a little cold and empty. He glanced at Elena, so beautiful and fierce and alien. Why would he _want_ to take the only known path just because it was known and expected? Here was a girl –a _girl_− who had made her own place on the Wall. And if Elena could defy expectations like this, why couldn't he? Why couldn't he be Jon Snow, the first of his name and the first of his kind? Why couldn't he have everything that he wanted?

These questions frightened him. Never before had he questioned his duty. It simply wasn't the Stark way.

"Can I give you a suggestion?" she asked. "Before you take your oaths and bind yourself to the Wall for eternity, ask yourself: What is the reasoning behind your decision, and is it what you really truly want?"

She walked away. He wanted to call after her and ask her what she meant and why she was telling him all of this. He didn't. Instead, he stared into the snow flurries in the darkness and felt himself falling and becoming lost with the white flakes into the abyss below.

* * *

**A/N: **Have you noticed that all the chapter titles reference an existing book or movie? This one references Jane Austen's novel _Persuasion_. Just a little bit of fun that we're having.

**Review replies: **

Guest: Thank you! We're glad you're enjoying the story so far.


	10. A Knight's Tale

**Chapter 10: A Knight's Tale**

**King's Landing**

The crowds murmured in anticipation, waiting for the next bout. There was an unknown from Crackclaw Point who was to ride against Gregor Clegane. All bets were on The Mountain. No one knew this Ser Lancelot Hardy, although some claimed to have spotted him from a distance and had said he had looked rather slight in comparison to the leviathan that was Clegane. It seemed like some poor joke that the boy was called Lancelot, in Ned's opinion. Arya had pointed out it sounded just like 'lance a lot'.

The tilting field had been cleaned up after Ser Hugh's unfortunate bout. Fresh dirt had been spread over the bloody patch and the ground had been smoothed, awaiting the Mountain's next victim. All the stands had been filled, and even Cersei was back by her husband's side, although she simply seemed bored as she usually was by anything Robert was interested in.

A cheer rose as the two knights rode out and saluted the crowds and the King. The hulking figure of Gregor Clegane was well known in King's Landing and every part of Westeros. One did not even need to see past his visor to know the cruelty in his face.

The strange knight, on the other hand, oddly kept his visor down as he rode past the lines of people who were waiting for his fall. Was he terribly disfigured? But he held himself well even though his armour was cheap, as if he were a man who wasn't used to bowing to anyone. When Ned caught a glimpse of his eyes through the slit of his visor, there was something that seemed…familiar.

The trumpet sounded, signalling the beginning of the joust. Sansa's hand tightened about Ned's arm while Arya leaned forward in her seat. He patted the older girl's hand comfortingly. "He seems to know what he's doing," he said. He hoped he knew what he was doing.

The knights charged toward one another. Both of them lowered their lances simultaneously and levelled them at their opponents' shields. Gregor bore three black hounds on a yellow background, and Hardy bore a white tree on green. Their horses' hooves sent sand flying as they drew closer and closer. The thudding of their iron-shod feet echoed the thudding of Sansa's heart.

Wood splintered upon impact and flew in every direction, but Ser Lancelot did not fall. In fact, he hardly flinched when Gregor's lance smashed into his shield. The broken end slid off as he angled his shield just ever so slightly to deflect the blow. Gregor, on the other hand, had been pushed backwards.

The herald waved his white flags to signal the end of the bout. Ser Lancelot's mount pranced before the crowds, enjoying the cheers as much as he was. The stallion was of a strange mottled grey hue, and his white mane flew like banners in the wind. Sansa clapped with the rest of them, wishing the knight would take off his helmet so she could see his face. He had to be handsome. How could he not be?

As the ground was smoothed again for the next bout, he rode up to where they sat in the stands. He bowed to her father from his saddle, and then held out a single beautiful white carnation to Sansa. "Thank you, Ser Lancelot," she said as she accepted it. "How did you know carnations were my favourite?" Her father frowned, but she didn't care. It was as if Ser Lancelot Hardy had ridden out from one of the old romantic tales the bards sang of. He embodied everything she had been looking for in King's Landing; pageantry, chivalric love, and the triumph of good over evil.

Again and again, the knights rode against one another. The crowd became more and more excited when Ser Lancelot remained in his saddle each time Gregor's lance struck his shield. "Clegane is tiring, and my coin purse seems a little lighter already," said Lord Baelish.

"Do you know anything about Lancelot Hardy?" asked Ned.

"He's a Hardy of Crackclaw Point," said Lord Baelish. "A distant cousin of Lord Lukas Hardy. The Hardys hardly venture beyond their own lands. This is the first time I have seen one in King's Landing in fifteen years."

The sun had risen high in the sky and was beginning its slow descent towards the horizon. Cicadas buzzed in the trees about the tourney grounds. The tilting halted for two hours while the king took his afternoon meal and the crowds went off in search of refreshment from the many vendors who had set up their stalls near the tourney grounds. The smell of hot potatoes and skewers of meat made Sansa's mouth water until Lord Baelish remarked someone had been caught using rat meat in their pasties. After that, she stayed away from the stalls and only ate what the servants brought them.

Occasionally, she would glance at where Joffrey sat by his father, engrossed in Robert's tales of the glory days, when he had been the jousting champion. The king's meal had been set out beneath the trees. The tables were almost collapsing with food. One more berry, and the legs would probably have given out.

A maid brought her delicate little pastries with chicken and mushrooms cooked in a creamy sauce and little slices of a long round loaf topped with crushed berries and whipped cream. They were the most delicious things she'd ever tasted. The bread was crusty on the outside, but the centre was so soft and light it just about melted on her tongue.

The afternoon session brought more of the same, except the bets had been increased, and the crowd was even more excited than before. The knights had switched to fresher mounts, and Ser Lancelot had yet to remove his helmet. Arya cheered each time he remained in his saddle after Clegane struck his shield.

And then the Mountain's horse lost its footing. Lancelot's lance struck the very centre of his shield. Wood splinters flew in every direction as the lance cracked down the centre from the impact of the blow all the way to the base of the weapon. The crowd was hushed as Gregor Clegane flew backwards and landed with a loud clang on the ground. Then a cheer went up for Ser Lancelot; a thunderous roar that drowned out everything else.

Hardy raised a gauntleted hand to wave. He dismounted. And then he removed his helmet. Sansa gasped.

"Aww, don't cry now, Greg old boy," said Damon to the vanquished Mountain. "At least you get the consolation prize. What was it? Oh yes. No gold dragons."

Gregor Clegane seized his sword from his trembling squire and lunged for Damon, his great broadsword raised for the kill. "No!" screamed Sansa, but even before her scream died down, Damon had easily sidestepped the blow. To add insult to injury, he kicked Gregor's feet out from beneath him, just as he had done so many times with the men in Winterfell.

"Missed me," he sang. He threw his helmet to the crowd. The smallfolk fought over it, each clamouring to have a piece of the man who would become this tournament's champion. Gregor swung his sword again, determined to quieten that insolent mouth Sansa had come to adore.

"Missed again!"

"Father!" begged Sansa. "You have to do something! You have to save him!"

"He seems…fine, Lady Sansa," said Lord Baelish as Damon somehow shoved Ser Gregor into the sand and danced out of the way before the furious hulk of a man could even reach out to hit him.

Baelish leaned forward to whisper into her father's ear. "I am going to lose my one hundred gold dragons, but this… This is worth a thousand."

Each time he missed, Gregor grew angrier and angrier. His swings became more reckless and erratic, and he seemed to forget that his opponent had yet to actually strike him. Apart from knocking him off his horse, that was. That didn't count. That was a fair joust and everyone knew it.

Damon continued to taunt him, as if he were baiting one of the direwolf pups and leaping out of the way just as Gregor _almost_ reached him. He was so beautiful and graceful, like a falcon dipping and swooping upon currents in the sky, while the Mountain became clumsier and clumsier like a tired bear being attacked by wolves on all sides. But there was only one Damon.

"Come on, Greg!" said Damon, spreading his arms wide as if exposing himself as a target. "I'm not even breaking a sweat here!" And he wasn't, while it poured down Gregor's face, making dirty tracks on his skin.

Gregor charged at him like a wild beast that had been stung by a bee. What he forgot was that the bee was, firstly, hardly a bee, and secondly, some bees were incredibly venomous.

Damon sidestepped the sword with an expression that almost embodied boredom and then, moving faster than Sansa's eye could follow, he grabbed Gregor's arm and twisted it, forcing him to release his sword. The great weapon dropped, sending up a spray of sand as it did. Gregor roared in pain and anger and the crowd roared in elation.

"Go Damon!" shouted Arya as she stood and punched the air with both fists in the most unladylike manner before their father dragged her back down into her seat. But, for once, Sansa didn't mind. If she hadn't been so well brought up, she would have done exactly the same thing. Instead, she clapped as hard as she could as her heart soared with pride.

Damon scooped up the sword. In his hand, it seemed to weigh no more than a needle. "What an incredibly…ugly sword," he said. Gregor growled at him, but a defanged dog posed no threat to anyone. He swung it experimentally. "Efficient for taking off a head, though."

"Stop this madness in the name of your king!" shouted Robert.

Gregor had the grace to stop growling, although he never stopped glaring at Damon. The younger man, on the other hand, bowed gracefully and offered Gregor's broadsword to the king. "Your Grace," he said.

"You are _not_ a Hardy of Crackclaw Point," said Robert.

"No, Your Grace," replied Damon.

"Are you even a knight?"

"No, Your Grace."

"Only knights can win tourneys." Robert's voice was stern, as it hardly ever was. "Kneel."

Oh Seven! What was going to happen? Was Robert going to punish Damon? He couldn't! "Father, don't let him hurt Damon," Sansa begged Ned. "Please don't let the king punish him!"

"Hush hush," said Ned. "Damon can look after himself."

She wasn't sure. When King Robert took the sword from Damon, using both hands to lift it because it was so heavy, she almost screamed. Or fainted. Or both. But the blood of the wolf was stronger in her than anyone had ever thought, including herself. She remained silent, and the only sign of her fear was her vice-like grip on her father's hand.

Robert levelled the blade at the kneeling Damon. The guardsman's blue eyes gazed up at the king's brown ones. There was utter silence as the king placed the sword on Damon's shoulder, next to his neck and so close to the skin that if he had moved it any closer, he would have drawn blood. The king tapped him once on each shoulder. "Rise a knight, Ser…who in the seven hells are you?"

"Damon Salvatore," said Ned as he stood. It seemed he had finally regained his power of speech. "He is one of my men at arms. Missing since this morning."

"Not anymore, he isn't. He's one of your knights, now," said Robert. "Your only knight. Daemon…as in Daemon Blackfyre?"

"I'm getting rather sick of this Daemon Blackfyre," said Damon.

The king laughed. It started off as a low rumble at first, and then grew until it became a full-hearted guffaw. Even the queen smiled a little as she looked at Damon. How could she not? Sansa thought he had never looked as handsome in his life, with his dusty armour, helmet-messed hair, and those beautiful laughing blue eyes. And now, he was _Ser_ Damon Salvatore. The bards' tales could not have been better.

"How did you find this one, Ned?" Robert asked.

"Actually, he found me," replied her father.

"He reminds me of me," said Robert, clapping Ned on the shoulder. "Well, if I can't joust, he can do it in my stead."

* * *

She heard them before she even saw them.

"What were you thinking?" her father was asking. He sounded angry; in fact, he sounded angrier than she had ever remembered hearing before.

"Forty thousand gold dragons is a lot of money, Lord Stark," said Damon. "Can you blame me?"

"I brought you to King's Landing to protect my household, not for you to go gallivanting off pretending to be a knight!"

"I'm not pretending , milord. I _am _a knight."

"Only in name," said Ned. Sansa recognized that tone. Damon was about to endure one of Eddard Stark's long-winded treatises on honour and duty and what it meant to be a knight of Winterfell even though northerners didn't actually believe in knights and Damon was the first. She'd have to have heard it one hundred times at least, and he had never even directed the speech at her before. Usually her brothers bore the brunt of it. Her father was not a very verbose man, except when it came to this topic. She had to save Damon.

"Ser Damon, congratulations," she said as she ducked inside the tent. And then she paused.

Damon wasn't wearing a shirt. She had occasionally seen her brothers shirtless before, so the shape of a man without a shirt was not completely alien to her. However, she had never found the male form to be so interesting. The muscles on his stomach were hard and sculpted. His skin was pale and smooth, and there was a trail of hair from his navel leading down to…

She blushed.

Arya bumped into her from behind and pushed past her. "You _have_ to teach me what you did just then," she said.

"What are you girls doing here?" demanded Ned.

Wait…what? Yes, why was she here again, apart from just to see Damon? Oh, yes. "We just wanted to congratulate Ser Damon on gaining his knighthood," stammered Sansa, forcing herself to turn to her father. "Obviously, it is not an appropriate moment."

"I've seen Jon with his shirt off before," said Arya. "It looks exactly the same."

"Out, the both of you," said their father. Normally, Sansa would have argued or cajoled him into letting her stay a little longer. Mostly the latter, as she had learned long ago the power of wide eyes and sweet words and a little pout. But today, she was still so dazed from what she had seen she simply nodded and did as she was told.

Outside, she touched the white carnation she had put into her hair.

* * *

**Oldstones**

_She needed a drink and this rain was making her hair go frizzy. _

_She hated frizz. It was so plebeian. Her boots sank into the mud. When would these people learn about paving the roads? It would make their economic development so much smoother. No wonder ninety-nine per cent of the population lived in poverty. Did they even know the meaning of the world 'progress'? Then again, perhaps it was an achievement for them if they didn't regress. She hoped Riverrun would be better than this, although she wasn't holding out hope that it would be like the City of Lights. _

_A thin column of smoke rose in the distance behind some trees with broad leaves that sheltered her somewhat from the rain. Smoke meant people, and she didn't care if they were friendly or hostile. Either way, they were edible. She pushed her way through the underbrush. The brambles and barren blackberry bushes tore at her skirts. She needed a new skirt. Preferably of silk. _

_The dismal looking hut didn't seem very promising at first. A few famished looking sheep huddled under the rafters. Well, if worse came to worst… She didn't want to think about it. She hadn't even liked mutton as a human. A horse shoe had been nailed to the worn wooden front door. Interesting. They had the same superstitions as medieval European commoners back in her day. She rapped on the door with her knuckles. _

"_What?" snapped a voice inside. Definitely. Good, she was not going to have mutton tonight. The door was opened by a gnarled old shepherd who looked as if he were as old as the forest itself. A smoky dung fire filled the hovel with the scent of burnt sheep shit. But it was better than standing in the rain. _

"_Please, I'm lost," she said. "I'm a travelling bard and I got caught in the storm." _

"_Go away," said the shepherd. _

"_I'm cold and hungry. Won't you invite me in?" She tried to compel him, but he was too stubborn and not stupid enough. _

"_I said go away!" he snarled and raised his stick. _

"_So rude," she said. She stepped closer. Her foot went over the threshold. _

_Over the _threshold_? _

_Well, this was an interesting development. She tried to reach through the doorway with her hands. Nothing. No magical barrier stopping her from going inside without an invitation. _

_She stepped inside. It felt so good to release her fangs, like scratching an itch that had needed to be scratched a long time ago. "Like I said," she said to the now terrified shepherd. "I'm hungry." _

_And there was even cheese to go with her drink._

* * *

**King's Landing**

One more Ser Loras Tyrell to beat, and he would be the owner of forty-thousand shiny gold dragons. Hmm…perhaps he could buy himself a house. Or several. It was dusk when the time for the last joust came around. Loras Tyrell could be considered handsome, he supposed. They called him the Knight of the Flowers because of his house's sigil. Could they get any more Tudors than the rose? Although, Henry Tudor was supposed to have been very handsome.

His armour was etched with floral patterns which reminded Damon of his grandmother's good crockery. Without the pink, of course. The two of them bowed to each other and the king before taking up their lances.

"You can't carry the Hardy shield anymore," Ned had told him before the bout. He had presented him with a Stark shield; a grey snarling wolf on a white background. "Remember, you are now a knight in the service of House Stark. Do not disgrace the name."

His horse pawed at the ground, gouging deep grooves in the sand. Too late he noticed the scent of Loras' horse and that of his own mount's arousal. The trumpet had already sounded.

The stallion surged forward, all testosterone and eagerness, forgetting that he actually had a job to do. His steps were unsteady as he collided against the barrier again and again, trying to break it down with the weight of his body. The wooden barrier shook, but held. It was meant to prevent exactly that from happening. It was one thing to have knights fighting. It was another thing to have fighting horses.

The tip of Loras' lance snapped on Damon's shield. The horse, in his excitement, stumbled and threw Damon out of the saddle. The vampire slapped the ground and rolled to his feet. He was not going to thrash about in the sand like one Gregor Clegane. The crowds cheered as Loras thundered pass.

Damon's horse rounded the corner to get to the other side of the barrier.  
"Go get her, boy!" he shouted to the stallion, which tried to mount Loras' mare from behind unsuccessfully before he was dragged away by four grooms. The crowd was laughing hard now, and even though he had lost, they cheered for him. Well, there had never been a knight with as much charm as he had. He took a bow.

Loras came to find him after the match, happy and contented now that forty thousand gold dragons were steadily making their way into his coffers. "Good fight," he said. He held out a hand to Damon, and the vampire took it. "Even if you did lose and then tried to set your horse on me."

"You cheated," said Damon, "and after all the cockteasing you did, the old boy deserved some."

"I'll admit, it was a little unfair of me, but forty thousand gold dragons is a lot, and there is no consolation prize."

Damon grinned. "Fool me once," he said.

Loras also grinned. "You know, Lord Renly holds the most magnificent balls. I heard he would be giving one soon. Perhaps you'd like to come?" he said.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," said Damon. The sun slipped completely beneath the horizon, leaving the faintest streak of purple that would fade as the night set in. The crowds, still buzzing with excitement, were beginning to disperse. Vendors packed up their stalls, their purses clinking with coppers and occasional silvers. He was going to need to go hunting tonight. Today's exertions had left him hungry. The taverns at Flea Bottom would be spilling over with travellers and drunkards no one would miss.

"I hope you know exactly what you have achieved today, my friend," said a man's voice as Damon set aside his breastplate. The younger squires and pages would polish his armour and his Stark shield. Being the newest and only member of House Salvatore, he would have to get his own sigil now. He already had one in mind.

"Lord Baelish," Damon greeted his visitor with a bow. "What a pleasant surprise."

"Well, well," said Baelish. "You have been going from strength to strength since you came here. A knighthood and the beginnings of a friendship with House Tyrell; should I begin watching my back?"

"If you can turn your head around one hundred and eighty degrees, why ever not?" asked Damon. "I mean, all the way around, that is."

Baelish laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Come, let us celebrate your victory tonight. Drinks and other tasty things are on the house."

* * *

**The Twins**

The stone bridge spanned the river. Its arches dipped into the swirling waters which foamed and seethed as they crashed into them. Banners depicting a much less impressive bridge flew from the parapets of the towers guarding both ends. It was wide enough to admit four horses walking abreast, and it would only take fifty men guarding the bridge to stop the onslaught of an army of thousands.

Elijah, on the other hand, numbered just one. He had no idea how he had come to be here; only that he was here. When the men confronted him and demanded he tell them the reason he was here, he convinced them take him to their lord, and they, intimidated by his well-spoken manner and perfect teeth as well as his calmness, did as he asked.

Walder Frey was a lecherous old man of ninety who still thought he had the sexual prowess of a man one third his age. His eyes and intellect, however, remained as sharp as they had ever been in his youth. Which was to say that neither were very keen, but they were keen enough to realize that Elijah was no ordinary wanderer.

Three thousand dollar suits tended to have that effect.

Elijah vaguely mentioned he was a traveller and a scholar, and when Frey had sneered and demanded he pay the toll to cross the bridge or be thrown in the dungeons, he calmly struck down the guards surrounding him without breaking a sweat or killing them.

"What is your price?" Frey asked him then. His crackling voice was magnified by the silence of his halls, where a hundred of his spawn surrounded him. They all feared him. Elijah could smell it on them.

"Price?" said Elijah.

"You heard me," said Frey. "Every man has a price. You're more useful than all my sons combined. So, name yours."

Elijah smiled. Money didn't matter to him, but this was a strange new world, and he had to begin somewhere. The Twins was as good a place as any.

* * *

**The Wall**

Ser Alisser was making him fight them one by one again. Pyp eyed him warily and while the swelling on Grenn's nose had subsided, the bruising had spread beneath his eyes, making him look like a corpse that had been left to go livid. The first time Jon had seen one of those, he had struggled to keep the contents of his stomach in his stomach.

However, whereas he would have obediently and routinely beaten them in the past, he recalled Tyrion and Elena's words. These men weren't supposed to be his enemies; whether he liked it or not, they were in the Night's Watch together, and they would one day be his brothers and watch his back.

"You need to keep moving. You never want to be too predictable, and staying still is very predictable," he said to Grenn. He turned to Pyp. "You're getting better, but you still move your feet too much and not moving your sword."

He could see them still wondering why he was doing this. Ser Alisser's disapproval grew as they gradually _almost_ forgot he was there.

The other boys, too, Jon helped and instructed until they were actually capable of some basic moves. It would take a lot more work, but since Ser Alisser seemed happy enough to not do the work required, Jon was more than happy to do it in his stead. After all, Tyrion Lannister was right. He didn't need these men as his enemies.

* * *

This was _not_ going to end well. Sam knew that as soon as he saw the practise yards. None of the boys there looked like him. They all knew how to hold a sword and they all seemed to _like_ hitting people. He could feel their eyes on him as he splashed his way through the puddles and got his boots thoroughly muddy. Sam had never liked the mud, and he liked hitting or getting hit even less. He didn't know what was worse; dying in a 'hunting accident' or dying by a hundred blunt practise blades. Maybe he was being a bit dramatic, but it _was_ possible. All they had to do was hit the right spot. Or just hit him a _lot_.

Sam didn't want to die.

He took a deep breath when Ser Alisser told him to tell the boys his name. The cold of the air on the Wall actually hurt, and despite the cumbersome armour he wore, he felt wholly exposed and vulnerable.

"Samwell Tarly, of Horn Hill," he mumbled.

"What was that?" said Ser Alisser. "Louder!"

Sam shrunk back. He didn't like sudden loud noises either.

"Samwell Tarly, of Horn Hill," he repeated a little louder this time. He finally looked up at the faces all staring at him. They bore incredulity, pity, and glee. That last one was the worst. "I mean, I _was_ of Horn Hill, but I−" He stopped himself. They didn't need to hear the whole story. From their faces, they probably didn't want to. "I've come to take the black."

There was a snort from one of the boys. Sam didn't know which and he didn't care to. Perhaps a hunting accident would have been easier. A flash of pain, and he would have simply ceased to exist.

But Sam didn't want to die.

"You mean you've come to take the black puddin'?" laughed one of the others. It wasn't fair. He didn't even like black pudding, and the other man wasn't _that _much thinner, although he could hold a sword better. Sam could count the number of times he'd held a sword on one hand.

"Rast, see what he can do," said Ser Alisser. Well, at least he could put one more name to one more face, not that it did him any good. No matter what they were called, they could kill him with one hand and blindfolded. He didn't really need to know the name of his killer.

It was as if someone had frozen him when Rast charged, sword raised. He didn't know how it happened, but his sword somehow slipped from his hand. He fell back when Rast struck his chest plate.

"I yield!" he cried.

"Get up and _hit_ him!" shouted Ser Alisser somewhere in the far distance. All he could see were boots and more boots surrounding him. Sam just wanted to get away. Somehow. The muddy flagstones were cold and slippery beneath him. He tried to move, but his knees seemed to lack the strength. Rast continued to hit him again and again and again and again.

He. Was. Dead.

* * *

**Review replies: **

Guest: That's just foreshadowing what Katherine will do later. ;) We won't give too much away.


	11. Serendipity

**Chapter 11: Serendipity**

**The Wall**

Jon could stand it no longer.

"Enough!" he said. There was training, and then there was just pointless cruelty. The boy from Horn Hill had probably never actually held a sword in his life. Elena was wrong; not all lords' sons had the benefit of learning from masters-at-arms like Ser Rodrik from the age of eight or five. "He yielded, Rast." The rapist glared at him, but as Grenn and Pyp closed in, he stepped away from the cowering boy. He knew he couldn't beat Jon alone, let alone all three of them at once.

Jon hauled Tarly to his feet. Ser Alisser smirked. "Well, well," he said. "Looks like the bastard's in love."

Jon had to remind himself to not react. He _was_ illegitimate, and if Tyrion Lannister could own a name like 'the dwarf' or 'the Imp', he could own the name 'bastard'. The fault and dishonour, after all, were not his.

"You'd best get ready to defend your Lady Piggy," said Ser Alisser. He turned to the remaining three. "You three ought to be sufficient to make the pig squeal. All you have to do is get past the _bastard_." There was one thing to be said for Ser Alisser. He didn't vary his insults very much. "Lady Piggy" was the highest point his creativity had ever reached.

Grenn visibly grimaced at the thought of having to fight Jon when the latter was on a mission, no matter how pointless said mission seemed. But he had no choice. Ser Alisser ruled this little kingdom of recruits with a hard fist. They had to do as he commanded.

Rast lingered behind as Grenn and Pyp rushed at Jon. At the last moment, Pyp hesitated, leaving Grenn to face him alone, not that it stayed that way for long. Metal clashed as Jon blocked the strike and forced Grenn's weapon to the side where it would be out of the way and useless before shoving his elbow into his chest and forcing him backwards. Pyp charged. The slighter man was better at dodging Jon, and it took another two exchanges before he, too, staggered back. As he did so, Rast saw his chance to strike Jon from behind. He did not hold back; all his hatred and disdain was put into that one blow. His only regret was probably that it had not been a real sword. Jon grunted and then swung around to engage him, kneeing him again and again in the stomach before he fell to the ground in a heap, much like the Tarly boy a few moments ago. He might have missed the stomach a few times and struck lower _accidentally_. His aim couldn't _possibly _be that accurate.

Ser Alisser scoffed at their efforts. "You think you can protect him? He'll be watching your back out there, and a fat lot of good that'll do you."

* * *

"I saw what happened," said Elena. Jon looked up from sorting through the pile of sweaty practise armour and setting aside the pieces that needed repairing or replacing. It was mind-numbing work, leaving him plenty of space to think. Only, he didn't really want to think. The future held too many possibilities; too many uncertainties. "It's a brave thing that you did, defending that boy."

"And a lot of good that will do him once we're out there in the wilds," said Jon.

"He doesn't ever have to set foot beyond the Wall," said Elena. "There are plenty of mundane tasks that need doing. God knows I see more than enough of them." She paused.

"What is it, Elena?" he asked. "You didn't come here just to talk to me about Tarly, did you?"

"It's going to sound stupid," she said.

He laughed. "I spent a whole morning with Ser Alisser and Rast. I think I can handle it."

"I was wondering if you could teach me how to use a sword," she said.

It was his turn to be silent. "Why?"

"I thought it would be useful to know," she said. "This is a dangerous place, and you're a good teacher. I mean, we'd have to do it in secret, of course, and it would take up your time…never mind. I'm sure−"

Jon reached out to catch her arm. "I'd be more than happy to," he said.

"Really?" Her eyes lit up. "There's a courtyard behind the kitchens. No one ever goes there after dark."

"Tonight, as the moon rises," he said. It might not be dishonourable or against the rules of the Watch, but somehow, it seemed deliciously forbidden.

* * *

The moon peeked out from behind the clouds like a great pale eye, surveying everything in its silver gaze. Nothing escaped it; not the man watching on the Wall, not the brothers sneaking off to Mole's Town to dig for 'treasure' –read: whoring− and certainly not the young recruit trying to dart from shadow to shadow from the sleeping quarters to the kitchens, with a white wolf trailing him.

But the moon had seen thousands upon thousands of years of secrets and it had never betrayed a single one of them, so Jon felt safe.

The courtyard behind the kitchens was usually used for offloading goods coming north to the Wall. Crates were stacked by the side next to the storage sheds, ready for re-use if necessary. Most of the time, they ended up as emergency firewood. Dark lichen sprouted up from the cracks between the flagstones. At first, Jon couldn't see Elena, but in the silence of the night, he heard her breathing, and as he looked around, he found her hanging by her fingers from the door frame of one of the storage sheds and pulling herself up again and again. It seemed to be some sort of uncomfortable and odd exercise.

When she saw him, she dropped down. "Hey," she greeted him. She greeted Ghost much more enthusiastically as the wolf bounded up to her. _He_ knew who was in charge of all the meaty bones and the animal knew exactly how to get one.

"Sorry, boy, no bones tonight," she said as she ruffled his ears as if he were a dog.

The first thing Jon noticed that was different about her than during the day was the usual twist she wore her hair in was gone. She'd tied her hair up with a leather thong tightly at the top of her head, letting the gathered strands hang down like the tail of a horse, but in a much prettier manner.

The second thing he noticed was that she was wearing a leather jerkin and an ill-fitting quilted gambeson like the boys usually wore when they were practising, but in her case, it only drew attention to her womanly curves and made him wonder about what she looked like without all these bulky layers.

Dammit! Honourable men didn't think about such things!

"I brought the swords and armour," he said. He sounded pathetic, like a little boy who was too scared to speak because he liked a girl.

"Great," she said. "Um…shall we start?"

Starting seemed like a good idea.

He helped her tie on the cumbersome armour and handed her one of the two practise swords. It looked awfully big compared to her, but there was something _very_ alluring about a pretty girl trying to hold a sword.

"Now, try to hit me−Ow!"

She'd struck him on the leg before he'd even finished his sentence. A woman who showed no uncertainty; he liked that.

"I'm sorry−" she began, but before she could finish, he lunged. She dodged, and he barely maintained his balance as she hooked her foot around his leg and tried to pull it out from beneath him. She was _fast_, and there was something very familiar about her fighting style, although he just couldn't remember where he'd seen it before.

Well, at least he knew she was more than capable of hitting –although he'd known that already. That was a better start than Tarly ever had.

"Your grip on your sword is too tight," he said after they had exchanged a number of blows and parries. Her technique was far from excellent, but somehow he only got a few hits in because she was so damn _fast_. No matter how much he sped up or slowed down, she could always keep up with him or simply dance out of the way. And her flexibility was phenomenal, achieving moves that most normal men wouldn't have. At least not without dislocating a limb. Not that she managed to hit him now that he was blocking her blows. She wasn't quite _that_ good yet.

He set aside his sword and moved behind her, with his arms on either side of her body, to help her correct her stance and reposition her hands on the hilt. "You want your grip to be secure, but not so tight that you are stiffening your wrists. They need to move. Think of a sword as being an extension of yourself. It's part of you."

He was leaning in so close that her hair brushed his cheek. It really was as soft as he had imagined it to be, and he took the chance to breathe in her scent of wood smoke and something entirely alien; something soft and feminine. He moved with her as she swung the sword, guiding her movements as she went through the different sets of moves Ser Rodrik had taught him and Robb when they had been boys.

"You're doing well," he said once they'd gone through all the sets. "Now, remembering what I've taught you, try to hit me _after_ I finish speaking."

"Are you done now?"

"You just want to hit me, don't you?"

"I have to say there's something very entertaining about it."

They exchanged a few more passes. Elena was a quicker learner than most, and her speed worked to her advantage.

"Are you sure you've never held a sword before?" he asked.

"The only time I'd ever held one was when I was bringing stray practise swords back to the armoury," she said. "You have no idea how they seem to grow legs and go wandering."

"Well, I'll let you in on a secret, so long as you don't tell anyone I said it," he said. "You fight better than many of the men."

"Really?" She turned around. "You're not just saying that because I'm actually crap and you want me to feel better, are you?"

"Have you ever heard me dole out undeserved praise?" he asked.

"You're not a bad teacher, you know, Jon Snow," she said. That smile made spending a night out in the cold and missing out on sleep and dirty banter completely worth it. "All joking aside, thank you. I don't know of anyone else here who would give up their evenings and nights to teach me sword-fighting. If you ever need my help, just ask. I'll do what I can."

Jon thought for a moment. "Well, there _is_ something you can do for me," he began.

* * *

Sam groaned as he sank onto the hard narrow cot that served for a bed for recruits. His bones ached. His joints ached. His muscles ached. Even his stomach ached after a less than satisfactory meal when Rast had taken his oatcake. He closed his eyes and prepared to go to sleep. Why couldn't they have mattresses? After all, straw wasn't all that expensive. Perhaps he should just go sleep in the stables. The horses had straw.

"Sam," said Jon.

He sat up immediately. Was someone actually _talking_ to him? He knew Jon had been trying to look after him in his own way, but he'd never actually _spoken_ to him before outside of practise. Jon stood above him, his eyes dark and unreadable. "What, what?" asked Sam as he began to panic. He didn't know _why_. After all, Jon would never hurt him.

Would he?

"Come with me," he said.

Sam hesitated, but he desperately wanted to be Jon's friend. He was so good at everything. Everyone respected him, or at least were afraid of him, and he wasn't afraid of anyone or anything, not even Ser Alisser. So he followed Jon as the other boy led him through the maze that was Castle Black, keeping to the shadows all the time with his wolf trailing behind. The animal made Sam nervous too, but he was too scared to say anything about it.

Samwell Tarly was a coward.

"Where are we going?" he whispered to Jon as the two of them peered around the corner to make sure no one saw them. He kept a tight grip on the three practise swords and the three suits of practise armour Jon had made him fetch.

"You'll see," said Jon.

Sam slowly realized that they were heading for the kitchens in the most roundabout way possible. Jon liked midnight snacks? Who knew? And who knew one could get midnight snacks on the Wall? But then, Jon seemed to get along very well with the second cook; the pretty one. The _girl_.

When he had first come to the Wall, he had never thought he would ever see a girl again. He had been quite sad about it. But then he saw her; a glorious vision appearing from the steam of the kitchens, ladling out stew for the hungry and tired recruits. She was the prettiest girl he had ever seen from a distance. He'd never actually seen her up close because he was always too afraid to look up when she was around, much less say anything to her. It was as if his throat dried at the very sight of her.

They finally came to a courtyard hidden behind the kitchens. A lone sack of something hung from the winch used to haul large animal carcasses up into the air so their blood could be drained for blood sausages.

"There you are," said Elena, emerging from the shadows. "I thought you weren't coming."

"I said I'd come," said Jon as he took the swords and armour from Sam and handed one set to the girl. Sam simply looked at the ground. Wasn't it interesting how the lichen looked in the cracks in the stone?

"You're Samwell, right?" said Elena. Oh dear seven! She was talking to him! Girls didn't talk to him, apart from his mother, and she didn't count. Gods, gods, gods, gods, what was he supposed to _do_?

Jon nudged him.

"SamwellImeanyesmynameisSamwell," he blurted out.

"I think he means to say, yes, his name is Samwell," Jon translated.

Sam nodded. It seemed like a safe thing to do, and he was capable of doing _that_ much at least.

"Don't be mean, Jon," said Elena.

"I wasn't!" protested Jon half-heartedly. Jon could as mean as he liked. At least he could do all the talking and Sam could continue examining the lichen. Was it just him, or did the lichen look like thousands of tiny little swords all stuck together?

"I don't think we've been properly introduced," Elena continued, ignoring Jon for the meantime. "I'm Elena Gilbert."

"I don't know how to talk to girls," Sam mumbled. He thought he'd said it too softly for anyone to be able to hear him, but Elena chuckled.

"It's just like talking to boys," she said. "Air comes up through your voice box, you make sounds, and your lips move to shape those sounds into syllables which you then combine to form words…you get the idea."

"He doesn't know how to talk to boys either," whispered Jon so loudly that everyone could hear him.

Hey! That wasn't fair! "I talk to you," he said, finally looking up at Jon. And then he looked right back down because both Elena and Jon were looking at him. Jon thrust a sword and a set of armour at him.

"Suit up," he said. "We are going to make you into a brother of the Night's Watch."

* * *

His breath sounded harsh even to his own ears. The cold air burned as it went down. His heart was hammering in his chest so loudly he felt as if it would burst out through his ribs at any minute. He swallowed as he clenched his fists and confronted his opponent's blank face.

"I don't like hitting things," said Sam.

"Just hit the damn sandbag, Sam," said Jon. "It doesn't have feelings!"

Obviously it did, because the sandbag hit back harder than he did.

* * *

His stomach burned. He couldn't breathe; not really. It was as if there was a great weight crushing him and he was fighting futilely against it.

"You can do it, Sam!" called Elena. "Just pull yourself up into a sitting position. That's it! That's it! You're almost there!"

Sam fell back flat onto his back. The moon and stars were probably all laughing. Jon certainly was.

* * *

They had to know what was going on. Pyp pretended not to notice as Jon and Sam sneaked outside. As if Sam could sneak. Although, lately, he had seemed much improved and Pyp wasn't sure that it had anything to do with them threatening to have Jon's wolf bite off certain parts of Rast's anatomy in the middle of the night if he didn't leave Sam alone. After all, that would not account for Tarly suddenly growing a set of his own. Why, he'd even threatened to hit Rast in the practise yards today if he didn't stop calling him 'Lady Piggy', and then he'd actually gone through with the threat. It wasn't a bad punch either; a quick jab, short and sharp. It had certainly stunned the lot of them into silence.

He nudged Grenn's leg beneath the table and the two of them followed Jon and Sam. It was hard to see outside. It had begun to snow, and the Night's Watch didn't have the budget to light the necessary lanterns. Most brothers carried their own torches if they wanted to wander outside after dark. Of course, the brothers sneaking off to Mole's Town never did, for obvious reasons. Sam and Jon hadn't been carrying a torch either. Were _they_ sneaking off to Mole's Town? Well, if they were, then Jon had a _lot_ of explaining to do. Why didn't he bring him and Grenn as well?

However, the two seemed to be creeping towards the kitchens. Typical Sam. But why was _Jon _going there?

Grenn bumped into him from behind and they almost fell down in a heap on the flagstones which were slowly becoming white. They found their balance just in time. Even if Jon didn't hear them, Ghost would.

Jon and Sam went behind the kitchens into the courtyard where goods were offloaded. Sam was beginning to grumble about why he had to come even though it was snowing and _no one_ with one ounce of sense would train in the middle of a storm. Then they heard her voice. They just _had_ to see this.

* * *

Sam continued to punch the sandbag in the background while they had their own lesson. Their practise swords had long been abandoned as they faced each other in the moonlight.

"One step forward, one step back," Jon was saying to Elena as he guided her through the moves.

Elena giggled as she stepped on his feet again. "God, I'm a terrible dancer," she said.

"I'm not disputing that," said Jon. "And again."

There were no lights save for one dim lantern, and no music save for their voices and the sound of the wind, but somehow there was more beauty in this bumbling dance than any of the feasts Jon had been to. He certainly enjoyed this dance more than any other. Elena's eyes shone, and she probably didn't know it, but she was biting her bottom lip in concentration. It did something to Jon, even though he wasn't exactly sure what it was that it did.

Without realizing he was doing it, he reached out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind Elena's ear. It did no good, as the wind was howling and determined to blow her hair out of place. They didn't say anything to one another. He simply smiled. "Shall we start again?"

"My goodness, Jon Snow," said a voice that really oughtn't be here. "You certainly have done well for yourself."

"Pyp, Grenn," said Jon. He turned around slowly to face them. "What are you doing here?"

"I would ask you the same thing," said Pyp.

"We're training," Sam panted as he came over. His hands were wrapped in bandages and the sandbag he'd been hitting was still swaying. "Well, I'm training, and they're dancing. I've never seen such bad dancing in my life."

"Training," Grenn repeated, looking at Elena and seeming a little dazed.

"Yes, Grenn, training," said Jon. "There's nothing against that, is there? In fact, now that you're here…" He turned to Elena. "Mistress Elena, I am intrigued by your unarmed combat methods and I have no doubt that we would benefit from some instruction."

"You want _me_ to teach you to fight?" said Elena.

"Would you not be willing to do so?" asked Jon. "After all, I have been training _you_ in the art of the sword."

"Fine, since you asked so _nicely_," she said as she rolled her eyes.

* * *

The snow had stopped when Benjen Stark rode through the portcullis of Castle Black, more dead than alive. Behind him, being dragged on a makeshift sleigh, were the bodies of Othor and Jafer Flowers, two of the other rangers he had ridden out with.

Jon pushed past the crowds of brothers who had gathered around as Benjen was being helped off his horse. "Uncle Benjen!"

"Blue ice in the dark. Blue ice. Blue ice," Benjen kept saying no matter what anyone said to him.

"What's he talking about?" Jon asked Yoren, probably the only person who would answer him.

"He's been saying that ever since he rode through those gates," said Yoren. "They say the cold and the dark, it sometimes does something to your head."

"Blue ice," whispered Benjen. "Cold." His skin was almost the colour of snow and he shook. Mormont ordered him to be taken to the infirmary. Jon followed, but was stopped at the door by the Lord Commander himself.

"He's in capable hands, Snow," he said. "Maester Aemon will take care of him." He turned to Elena. "The maester has asked for your assistance."

"Of course," she said, and then she, too, disappeared inside the dark confines of the infirmary, where even the roaring fire in the hearth could not completely banish the chill emanating from within.

* * *

**The Riverlands**

_Spears of grass gleamed silver in the moonlight by the side of the road. Her feet made little imprint in the dirt, which had been packed down by centuries of hooves and feet and wheels. Horses' hooves thundered down the road, drawing closer and closer. Riders at this hour? She kept walking. They would catch up to her sooner or later, and she wasn't afraid. If they were hostiles, she'd take care of them. If they were friendly…_

_Well, she liked having friends. _

_She glanced backwards as the riders came around the corner, banners flying. Trout. Tully men. Their armour gleamed and it was well made. Certainly not just Tully soldiers, then._

_They made to ride past her, but then the lead rider reined in his horse. _

"_It is a rather late hour to be wandering the roads, mistress, is it not?" he asked. His copper hair, now greying, was beginning to recede. _

"_But with lords such as yourself patrolling them, surely the roads would be safe regardless of the hour, Ser?" she said. _

"_You have the honour of speaking to Lord Edmure, of House Tully," he corrected her. "But you are correct. No bandit would ever be brazen enough to accost travellers this close to Riverrun." _

_She curtseyed to him. Lord Edmure Tully? Hmm…he was a little weathered for her taste –she liked smooth skin− and she couldn't exactly eat him because then she'd have to kill him and all his men. Right now, it would not benefit her to draw attention to her existence by killing important lords. "Are you trying to frighten me, my lord, with all this talk of bandits?" she asked. _

"_Well, we cannot have that, my la− mistress. If you desire it, mayhap you could accompany myself and my men back to the city? For your own safety." _

"_Thank you for your kind offer, my lord, but seeing as you are on horseback, I am afraid I would only slow you down." _

"_Have no fear, mistress, for I have a spare horse," he said. He motioned for his squire to dismount. The boy did so with a scowl in her direction. She smiled prettily and allowed him to lift her onto the horse's back. She sat side-saddle, even though the saddle wasn't made for it. But no proper lady would straddle a horse. Not like the way she would straddle a man. _

_Edmure looked her up and down appreciatively as he fully took in her appearance for the first time. He seemed a little dazed. Men usually were by her beauty. "Is it safe to sit thus on a horse?" he asked. _

"_I have had some experience with horses," she replied. "My skirts do not allow me to ride properly." _

"_We will go slowly, then," he said. _

_Had she ever mentioned she loved chivalry?_

* * *

**The Wall**

She came and found him on the battlements at night, keeping watch over the vast blackness below. The wind had picked up again, and little twisters of snow formed along the length of the Wall every now and then before disappearing as suddenly as they had come into existence. They weren't very different from the lives of men, really. The Wall had seen eight thousand years. How many men must it have seen come and go? Their lifespans must seem to it as the snow twisters seemed to him.

"He's sleeping now," said Elena as she came to stand beside Jon. "Maester Aemon says he should recover in the next few weeks. Apart from the cold and lack of nourishment, he seems fine. There were no injuries that we could find apart from a few fading bruises."

"He wasn't fine, Elena," said Jon. "I've never seen him like this before. This is Benjen we're talking about. He's not afraid. Not like this."

"Maybe he simply never let you see him afraid," said Elena. "Parents do that."

"He's not my parent," said Jon.

"They don't have to actually have taken part in creating you to be your parent," said Elena. "He might as well be just another father to you."

"We've known each other for a little more than a month, and yet there seems to be nothing I can hide from you," said Jon. He finally turned to face her. "And sometimes, I don't think I want to−"

He didn't get to finish. Ghost began to snarl.

The howl on the wind was most definitely _not_ the wind.

From the dark haze a white figure emerged. It was more like an outline of a man than a man, and the only feature Jon could make out was its glowing blue eyes.

He unsheathed his sword. "Get back behind me, Elena!" he shouted. The figure charged. Jon thrust his sword into Jafer's stomach, but it did absolutely nothing to deter him. The man, if he could still be called that, wrapped his fingers about Jon's neck and slammed his head onto the stone. Stars burst in his vision. Jafer was so strong. His fingers were slowly crushing Jon's windpipe and nothing he did could dislodge the man's icy grip.

And then Jafer released him. He saw a shadow pass before his eyes and the ice-man was bowled over. Jon scrambled to his feet only to see Elena lunge at Jafer. Her back was to him, but he knew, at that moment.

He knew she was no mortal woman.

Jafer charged at her, but she was faster and stronger. Dodging his icy outstretched hand with movements so fast that she just seemed like a blur, she wrenched his arm behind his back. As she did so, she turned around so Jon could see her face.

That face.

Gone were the soft beauty and the large shining eyes. Instead, her eyes had become pools of black. Her veins, like cracks in marble, were showing prominently around them.

And her teeth.

She sank her fangs into Jafer's neck. One hand kept a hold of his arm as the other reached beneath his chin.

And then tore his head off. Just like that. The head rolled a few feet and stopped; the eyes were still blue and glowing and the mouth agape in a silent roar or scream. It was hard to tell what it was trying to do now that it was separated from the voice box.

The body staggered about. Jon snatched up the charcoal brazier with his bare hands, not caring if he got burned or not, and flung it at still moving but headless and harmless wight. As the body became ash, the eyes ceased to glow. He threw the head into the flames anyway, just in case.

And then he turned to Elena; beautiful, dangerous, otherworldly Elena. At that moment, everything made sense. Dracula, the beast in Winterfell, Damon's stories…

"You're a…you're a…a _vampire_," he whispered. "You're _Damon's_ Elena!"

* * *

**Review replies: **

**JordieFan: '**Awesome chapter, as usual. Now that Damon's a knight, I wonder what he'll choose as his personal sigil? It'd be funny if he chose something like a pair of bloody fangs on a black background. Though, that might just make Ned slightly suspicious, haha. "The bloody fangs of House Salvatore."'

_Thanks! We have planned Damon's sigil. It's not quite as obvious as a pair of fangs, but it does have something to do with Damon's life back in the USA and Mystic Falls. It'll be appropriate, but very Damon. Ned's not going to suspect a thing. _

**Guest: **'Omgg love when you update. I am falling more in love with Damon. If that's even possible :)'

_We're glad you're enjoying it! Yes, Telcontar believes it _is_ possible to fall more in love with Damon! You're not alone! _

**Guest: **'This story is pure brilliance, all the characters are well written and I can't wait for everone to start interacting. You've certainly taken on a lot of povs and I can't wait to see how they really start changing the game. Just wanted to say thanks, this is probably one of the best stories in this section and I hope that you can maintain your brilliant update rate. :D'

_We're so happy that you like it. All the characters are keeping a low profile (sort of) for now, but they will be changing the game once everything gets into motion. We have several chapters drafted and several more planned. They all just need writing/editing. _

**A/N: **We know, we know, this chapter is mostly Jon/Elena-centric. Other people will return soon!


	12. Love in the Time of Winter

**Chapter 12: Love in the Time of Winter**

**The Wall**

The uproar died down by the time the sky lightened and night slowly turned into day. Not that it made any difference, as it was almost always dark on the Wall, and no one had gotten any sleep anyway. While Elena and Jon had dealt with Jafer, the wight of Othor had attacked the sleeping quarters and slaughtered a dozen brothers before he was finally brought down, cut to pieces and then thrown into the flames to burn.

The legends, the bedtime stories, wights and dragons, walkers and vampires, the old tales and the new; they were all true. Jon couldn't believe it had all been before his eyes and he simply hadn't seen. How blind had he been anyway?

He made Elena him everything about how she wasn't even of Westeros –that, he had guessed, but he'd thought she was from some city in Essos or something like that− and how she had come to be at the Wall. It had all seemed to be a fortuitous accident that she had been here to meet him while Damon had ended up in Winterfell, where Bonnie, who was a _witch_, had been able to use his blood to brew the potion that saved Bran. What were the gods playing at? Or were they simply moving the pieces about the board and laughing at them as they stumbled around with no sense of direction and no idea what was going on?

"So…everything Damon ever told me, about vampires and about himself; everything was a lie," he finally stated flatly when Elena finished her story. "He convinced me to tuck garlic into every corner of Winterfell while he must have been laughing his head off behind my back. That _bastard_."

"I do believe he was perfectly legitimate," said Elena. "Not that it did much for his personality."

"Yet…you love him anyway." He couldn't have her. She was Damon's Elena.

"It's complicated," said Elena. "I have feelings for him, but… He sent me away, Jon, and even I don't know whether my feelings for him are because I actually care or because of the sire bond."

"You should go to him," he said. "He's in King's Landing with my father."

"Maybe. In time," said Elena. She covered his hand with hers. "Not yet. I'm not ready."

"Elena…" He leaned towards her, seemingly against his own will and better judgement. But she'd said it was 'complicated', hadn't she? And she wasn't really with Damon right now. She could be with him if she'd wanted to be with him, but she wasn't. She was here with _Jon Snow_. So…did that mean…

Her eyes darkened, and her fangs extended slowly as the two of them drew closer.

"I'm sorry," she said as she pulled away. "I just…need to feed."

He caught her hand. "Here," he said. He rolled up his sleeve to expose his wrist.

"Jon, I can't−"

"Why not? Damon bit Robb." Oh yes, now _that_ would be a sight to see if he ever got to tell Robb that it had been _Damon _who had attacked him that night. And then Damon had convinced them to send Damon to hunt Damon. It was positively Damonic.

Jon offered his wrist to Elena. "I'm not afraid," he said. And he wasn't. If she'd wanted to hurt him, she could have done it a long time ago. "I want to see the real you."

"I'm still me. Vampire is just one aspect."

"I want to see all your aspects, Elena."

She took his wrist shyly. He reached out to touch her mouth as her face changed and her fangs extended. How was it possible? He didn't understand any of it, yet it was right here before his eyes. How could something so terrible as a blood-drinking undead being be so alluring and beautiful at the same time? Instead of feeling repulsed, he just wanted to know more about her. He wanted to know _everything_. Yes, her saving his life probably had something to do with it.

He sucked in a breath as her fangs sank into his wrist. It hurt, but not as much as it ought to. There was something very intimate about blood-sharing. Then she suddenly pushed him back as she retched, bringing up the mouthfuls of blood she'd just consumed. It dribbled down her chin and onto the front of her tunic. "It burns," she gasped. "It's burning!"

* * *

When Aemon finally emerged from Elena's quarters, he assured Jon she was going to be fine. "It is a curious reaction," he said. "But it's not the first time it has happened, and ultimately it did her no harm."

"But why would she react like that?" asked Jon. "There was…another vampire in Winterfell. He drank from my brother. That never happened to him."

"I am not certain," said Aemon. "But could it be possible…" His blind eyes stared into the distance, into the past.

"What is it, Maester?" asked Jon.

"Never mind," said Aemon as he patted Jon's hand. "You should rest. I heard you fought bravely against the wight."

"Elena did most of the work. I simply threw fire at it," said Jon.

"How?"

Jon explained to Aemon exactly how he'd snatched up the charcoal brazier and how the body had turned to ash almost instantly. Aemon reached for his hand and touched the palm. There were no blisters; not even the slightest sign of a burn. Jon had simply assumed he hadn't touched the brazier for long enough.

"Could it be?" Aemon whispered, and Jon had the sense that he wasn't really talking about the wight.

* * *

**King's Landing**

The mystery of the boring book remained that; a mystery. Despite listening in on Ned murmuring to himself while flicking through the bone dry pages –there was something to be said for lying on the roof; no one ever looked up, and one felt quite alone and invincible so high up. Maybe Bran had been onto something− and going along with him whenever he went to visit that overpriced armourer, Damon still couldn't see what the big deal was.

So what if the armourer's apprentice was Robert's bastard? The man probably had several hundred judging by the way he went at it. What was so special about this one apart from the overpriced armour he made? It wasn't as if he could amount to anything. One, he couldn't read, and two, Cersei would never ever let one of her husband's bastards supersede her legitimate children.

And Gendry Waters' bull helmet? So Conan the Barbarian.

Being a knight meant his life settled into the new normal after the furore and the excitement of the tournament had passed and people went back to their mundane and trivial little lives. He was still a guardsman for the Starks, albeit one with his own sigil now.

He'd chosen the raven. So what if it was the Westerosian equivalent of a carrier pigeon? He'd had a pet raven once, before he'd eaten it. One did what one had to do to survive. So now, in honour of his murdered bird, he wore a black raven on a red background. For the blood, of course. There was no Damon Salvatore without blood.

There were some differences in his life now. For one, he frequented Baelish's brothel a lot, sometimes for a little something on the side, but mostly to eavesdrop.

In fact, he'd been there when his new squire, some hapless boy whose name he constantly forgot –Burt? Kurt? He alternated between the two to keep things interesting− had come in with a message from the Queen. It had taken him several minutes to actually convey it. All the sex around him and the fact that one of the Queen's servants had approached him had deprived him of what little speech ability he'd had in the first place.

Damon extracted himself from the attentions of two of Baelish's lovely ladies –and reluctantly pulled himself away from the rather inane, but possibly important, conversation Grand Maester Pycelle was having with a whore next door. "Come again?" he said to Burt-Kurt.

"Th-the-the Queen..." said Burt-Kurt.

The vampire rolled his eyes. The squire hadn't been his choice. Ned had probably chosen him to dampen his style. "That'll be all, ladies," he said to the girls as he threw a couple of coins at them. They'd been amateurs. Seriously, Petyr needed to up his style. What about a little pole dancing? They reluctantly left after fluttering their eyelashes at him a little more, enticing him to come back to them with more coin.

"Give it here." He held out his hand to his squire, who silently handed over the note. His eyes were already wandering, following the girls' retreating backsides. Poor thing was probably still a virgin.

The note was written in a lovely neat hand and sealed with Cersei's own red wax seal depicting a lion.

She'd invited him to lunch with her tomorrow. Just as well he'd already sent the design for a tuxedo to the tailor. He was going to need that.

* * *

This was the man she'd envisaged she'd marry when she'd been a girl. And now, he appeared like a vision amongst the hedges and the roses of the gardens, wearing the strangest jacket she had ever seen. She rather liked it. Its sharp lines emphasized his narrow waist and proportionately broad shoulders; the very vision of youth and invincibility. As it had been with the first time she had ever seen him, it was his smile that drew her in.

"Your Grace, you look positively radiant," said Damon as he kissed the back of her hand. He let his lips linger as he glanced up at her with those piercing blue eyes of his. Such beautiful eyes. Such a beautiful man. She'd own him one day.

"Ser Salvatore," said Cersei. She did not rise from her seat as she indicated the chair opposite her. Between them lay a spread of some of the best delicacies the Red Keep's kitchens had to offer. A servant moved to serve them, but Damon intervened.

"Allow me," he said. The knife became an artist's tool in his deft hands as he sliced the meat and offered her the choicest cuts.

"I must say, Your Grace, I am honoured that you even know my name," he said.

"The whole city knows you, Damon−May I call you Damon?" she said. She took up her goblet and sipped at the chilled wine.

"That's my name," said Damon.

"No man dares to talk to me like that," said Cersei. No man except Jaime, but he was different.

"Maybe it's time someone did, Your Grace," said the knight. "It must be boring to be surrounded by the simpering and bowing and the little flatteries that don't mean anything."

"Are you professing to be different from all the other courtiers I have ever met?" said Cersei. "They number more than the stars."

"I am not professing to be different. I am different."

For a moment, Cersei forgot she was queen. She forgot the bitter years spent with Robert living in the shadow of a dead girl. She could look into his eyes forever− she shook herself out of it. Salvatore was a mere knight, and a _Stark_ knight at that, although he was nothing like those uncouth northerners. He was much too handsome, much too intelligent, much too ambitious. His phenomenal rise from nobody to knight proved that. She invited him to walk with her through the gardens while the servants cleared away the dishes.

"I remember when you sang for us in Winterfell," said Cersei. "I thought you insolent then, but I couldn't help but watch you. And I'd always wondered what manner of man would sing such a song in front of my husband."

She faced him. "I admire you, Damon," she said. "I want us to be friends."

"I like having friends, Your Grace," said Damon. His smile was innocent. Too innocent.

"But I hope you will choose your friends wisely," said Cersei. He would be hers. One day. Soon.

* * *

So Cersei wanted to be friends, did she? Unfortunately for her, Damon chose his friends _very_ carefully, just as she'd advised him, and as far as he was concerned, he could throw her further than he could trust her. A woman like Cersei Lannister didn't have friends. She had minions and allies.

However, he wasn't about to say no to her face. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Shakespeare had written those immortal words more than two centuries before Damon's birth, and they were as relevant now as they had been then. And Cersei had been scorned far too much already by her husband. One only had to see the way she indulged Joffrey's little whims to see a glimpse of her true nature. Only a woman who craved love would indulge him like that. Only a woman with no scruples would be able to love him. Perhaps they ought to modify Shakespeare's words just a little.

After all, hell hath no fury like a Lannister scorned.

He was intercepted by Ned's household guard as soon as he stepped through the front door, having been summoned by the Hand. Damn Baelish. Did he have to tell him? Given the choice, Damon wouldn't have let Ned know at all. God knew he was about the only man in the city with no spies running about being his eyes and ears. And he needed someone to do that for him. Who better than a vampire that saw and heard everything?

Ned was in his study, paging through the boring book and tapping its yellowed pages with his finger. He slammed the book shut when Damon came in and closed the door behind him. There would be speculation as to what happened behind this door this afternoon, and all the eyes and ears that were watching in the Tower of the Hand would be passing on this little titbit as if it were second-hand smoke. Cersei would hear of it, no doubt, but he could always say he was gaining Ned's trust. While not entirely false, it ought to be ambiguous enough for Cersei to think that Damon Salvatore wanted to be her minion. As if _that_ could ever happen.

"What did the queen want with you?" asked Ned. His voice was falsely calm and his grey eyes flashed dangerously. Well, as dangerous as Ned Stark's eyes could ever be. Robb was about a thousand times better at that whole flashing eyes thing. Maybe it was the baby blues.

"She wanted my delightful company and my friendship, my lord," replied Damon. He leaned closer towards Ned's desk to get a glimpse of the book. Did Ned use book marks? "I'm sure you understand what that infers."

Ned rubbed a hand over his tired face. "And what did you say?"

"Only that I liked having friends," replied Damon.

"Why are you telling me this?" asked Ned.

"I only said I liked having friends. I never said I was her friend." He sighed. Did he really have to be so direct? Robb would have understood. Then again, Ned was hardly Robb. "Look, Varys has his little birds, Littlefinger has his…well, fingers, I suppose −" Ned looked at him oddly. "−and the queen has her…everything else. You're the only one in this city running around blind, deaf and dumb." Ned frowned and gripped his desk a little tighter than he should have. Apparently, Lord Stark did not enjoy having his flaws pointed out to him. Damon ignored that. No pain, no gain, and all medicine tasted bitter. He leaned in closer.

"Bottom line, you need to stick your nose in places where they don't belong, and since the queen likes me as much as she is capable of liking anyone…"

The two men stared at one another, Ned critically analysing, and Damon just enjoying watching his face as the wheels and cogs churned in his mind while he wondered whether he could trust him. Ned's fingers continued to tap against the book. Did he always do that when he was thinking hard? Damon hadn't noticed it before.

"I took you in against my better judgement when you had nowhere else to go," said Ned. "You may be a knight now, but you are still my knight."

* * *

**Riverrun**

_She plucked the harp string with her finger to test its sound; perfectly clear and pure like the sound of metal hitting glass, as it ought to be, and in tune too. Then again, she would never let a harp go out of tune. The halls of Riverrun were high and vaulted, with good resonance, making for an excellent auditorium. From the inside, the roof resembled the ribcage of some giant animal, as if she were Jonah in the whale's belly. _

_Oil lamps hung from the rafters, and in the centre was a large iron chandelier which illuminated the centre table where the lords sat discussing matters which were, supposedly, too complicated for her womanly mind to understand. _

_Edmure Tully had invited her to play for him and his father and uncle during their dinner. "Dinner is merely an excuse to discuss matters of state," Edmure had said. "They are terribly tedious, but some music would improve my situation to no end. I have always liked music, but it is not seemly for the heir of Riverrun to learn to play an instrument. Indeed, my father does not like it when I invite bards into our halls. He seems to forget that Rhaegar Targaryen was a great statesman, warrior, and musician." _

"_Then why invite me, my lord?" she had asked. _

"_Do you always do as you are told?" he had asked in return. She had simply smiled at him. What obedient little girl would go wandering about the back roads of Westeros, after all? _

_The city of Riverrun was prosperous. Water surrounded it on three sides. If they flooded the moat in the front and raised the drawbridge, the city would have become a veritable island. Merchants came in and out, bringing silks and spices from the south, and taking back with them carts of dried fish. _

_People in Riverrun ate a lot of fish. _

_But, of course, fish was the food of commoners. Currently, Lord Hoster Tully, his brother Brynden Tully, and Edmure were feasting on a pig stuffed with boiled eggs and berries, and white bread so soft that one could make a bed out of it quite comfortably._

"_So, what do you think of Eddard Stark's appointment as Hand of the King, Edmure?" Hoster Tully was asking. His face had so many lines in it she wouldn't have been surprised if she were to find dust in those cracks. While he tried to maintain the illusion of health, she could smell the disease on him. Hoster Tully was not long for this world. _

"_Well, I suppose Cat must be missing her husband," said Edmure. _

_Brynden Tully looked as if he wanted to facepalm. That was, if Westerosians knew about facepalming, which she assumed they did because it was universal. They simply might not have a term for it. _

_They called Brynden the Blackfish, not because he bore any resemblance to a killer whale, but because his sigil was a black trout. Hmm, someone couldn't time their baked fish properly. _

"_When House Stark rises, so too does House Tully," said Blackfish. _

"_Then we need only sit back and reap our rewards," said Edmure. His silliness was endearing. _

"_Forgive me, my lords, for I could not help overhearing," she said as she stopped playing. Three pairs of eyes, all blue, turned to her. "Lord Stark, I believe, has a unique opportunity before him. Now, I may only be a bard and a silly little girl, but if I were in his place, I would seek to surround myself with friends and people I can trust. And who better to trust than one's own family?" _

"_Now _there's _an answer," said Blackfish. _

"_And how exactly would he surround himself with friends?" asked Hoster Tully. He leaned forward slightly. Men always did that in her presence. _

"_The Hand of the King may appoint anyone to the Small Council, or dismiss them from it. And perhaps, in time, the Small Council may become the Big Council." She fluttered her eyelashes for effect. _

"_Summon my scribe," said Hoster. "I would write Eddard Stark a letter." _

"_But, Father−" protested Edmure. _

"_Who said it was going to be you?" said Hoster. _

_Poor Edmure._

* * *

**The Wall**

So, _this_ was why the improvement had been so drastic and why they had been pulling strange moves during training. He had always known the girl and the bastard were both bad news. And now…well, now he could get rid of at least one of them. Ser Alisser smiled grimly as he watched them from above. They thought they were so clever, picking a seldom used courtyard for their little meetings. But then they had not been clever enough to keep silent.

He turned to go. He would give them this night, and then it would be the end of the cosy little gang. Mormont would never send the bastard away, not now, but the girl…

Well, the girl was never meant to be here in the first place.

* * *

When the Lord Commander summoned her, she knew it wasn't good news. Elena knocked softly on the door. In fact, she knocked so softly she had to knock again before he heard her.

"Come in," he barked.

She slowly let herself in, aware that she wasn't the only one who Mormont had invited. Both Yoren and Tyrion Lannister were already nursing horns of ale, while Alisser stood to one side, his grim smile turned on full volume.

"You wanted to see me, Lord Commander?" said Elena. Was she in trouble just because she'd revealed her true identity to Jon? It couldn't be helped. She'd had to do it or else he would have died.

"Sit down, Elena," said Mormont. "Do you know why you're here?"

She shook her head. There could be a billion reasons.

"The Wall is no place for women," said Mormont, "no matter how extraordinary. We took you in because you had nowhere else to go, but it has recently come to my attention that you have grown close with a few of the…recruits."

At that, Ser Alisser actually showed teeth. He was _that_ pleased.

"Is it true that you have been fraternizing with a few of the boys at night behind the kitchens?"

"We were just practising combat," said Elena. "Sam needed help."

"Your task was never to train the recruits. That is Ser Alisser's domain," said Mormont.

This was not fair! It wasn't as if Alisser had been any good with training any of them, beyond getting them to try and beat each other to a pulp. Sam was confident enough to hit back now, and he was less round than he had been thanks to the exercise regime she and Jon enforced. But any protestations would have been futile, and it might actually have added to the trainer's satisfaction. That, she was definitely _not_ going to do.

So she stayed silent.

"Yoren and Lord Tyrion leave for King's Landing tomorrow morning," said Mormont. "You will go with them."

* * *

The sun's rays dribbled through the clouds in pathetic streams. The horses were loaded. This was it.

Elena stood before Jon, dressed once more in the jacket and jeans she had been wearing when she had first appeared on the Wall. Her hair was hidden beneath the hood of the cloak Aemon had given to her. Tucked in her pocket was a precious map from the maester's library. He'd made her write down all the major houses on the back, along with their house words and their sigils, in case she forgot and needed to look them up quickly.

"I don't want to say goodbye," she said to Jon.

"We'll have to say goodbye at some point; we knew that from the beginning. You can go back to Damon," said Jon.

When he said Damon's name, the guilt she thought she'd forgotten began to gnaw at her again. On the one hand, she would love to see him again, if only to figure out how she really felt. And even if it was the bond manipulating her, Damon loved her more than he had ever loved anyone in the world. He would always be her pillar. But then, on the other side, already so far away, was Jon. She'd watched him grow from a bitter boy into a leader of men. She wanted to continue watching him grow, to help him, to teach him to laugh. He needed to learn to laugh.

"I'll miss you," she said.

"Elena, I…" He let his voice trail off. There was so much to say, but no words and time to say it. She understood him anyway. Instead, she took off her necklace; the one she had teleported with. It had been her mother's. It was just an old fashioned silver locket that had been passed down through generations of Gilbert women until it had come to her. She really ought to have given it to her own daughter or daughter-in-law when the time came, but…well. That was never going to happen.

She pressed the necklace into Jon's gloved hand and closed his fingers around it. And then she just had to do it. For the first time since they'd met, she threw her arms around him.

* * *

He stiffened in surprise as Elena wrapped her arms about his neck and buried her face in the crook between his neck and shoulder. Then he allowed himself to hold her. Just this once. It was only going to be once. He would never get the chance again. She felt so small, like a little bird that would fly away from him at any moment. She _was _going to fly away back to her Damon, who had so much more to offer her. _He_ wasn't going to live out his life in a frozen wasteland.

Her soft lips brushed his cheek in a kiss.

"Goodbye, Jon Snow," she whispered.

"How much are you willing to bet that Jon Snow won't make it to his vows?" he heard Tyrion Lannister murmur to Yoren none-too-softly.

"I'm not a Lannister. I don't have free money to give away," the Night's Watch recruiter replied. The words hardly registered. He didn't think much of what Tyrion and Yoren thought. His mind was on the girl in his arms; the girl he was about to lose.

It was all too brief for Jon. Elena pulled away from him and never looked back again.

He'd lost her. He'd lost her forever.

But she hadn't given Damon her necklace. She'd given Jon Snow her necklace.

* * *

**King's Landing**

She hated King's Landing. She hated Sansa. She hated her septa. Most of all, she hated Joffrey.

Arya stabbed the needle into the pin cushion again and again and again, wishing it was Joffrey's heart rather than just a pin cushion. Her embroidery lay on her lap, mostly unfinished without form or beauty. She wished her father had left her in Winterfell.

"Arya, stop that!" said Septa Mordane sharply. Arya ignored her and continued to stab her embroidery needle into the cushion. In fact, she stabbed it more viciously than before. That one was for Mycah. That was for Lady. That was for Nymeria. And that one was for herself.

Septa Mordane lifted her out of her seat as if she were a child playing with her food at the table rather than a girl of eleven. She hated how she did that. She never did it to Sansa, not even when Sansa was being the most spoilt little brat one could ever imagine. When it came to Septa Mordane, Sansa could do no wrong. It just wasn't fair!

It was just as well that her father came in at that moment, or else she might have just _accidentally_ mistaken the septa's hand for a pin cushion.

"What's going on?" he asked. Arya loved him, but sometimes, he was so…

Was she allowed to call her father just a little bit silly? It was quite clear what was going on. Then again, he didn't spend very much time in the solar with the girls, so perhaps he could be forgiven for not knowing how things worked, particularly between her, Sansa, and Septa Mordane. A day never passed without the septa reprimanding her for not being ladylike, as if _that_ was something to aspire to. She didn't want to learn to simper and flutter her eyelashes at boys just so she could lure in a husband the way the stale bread and mouldy cheese lured rats into the traps in Winterfell's kitchens. She wasn't sure she even wanted to get married. It sounded so awfully boring. Sure, she could run a household if she really needed to, but did she really _have _to?

"Arya would rather behave like a beast than a lady," said the septa.

"I was practising," said Arya.

"For what?" scoffed Sansa, finally looking up from her embroidery as if she'd just realized the rest of the world existed. Her pretty mouth was turned down in a frown. She saved her smiles for people she thought worthy, like Joffrey and Damon. Seriously, it was pathetic.

"The prince," said Arya.

"Arya!" Ned said, aghast. "Please do not say such things."

"He killed my friend, Father! And Sansa was a liar. If she'd told the truth, Mycah would be alive and so would Lady! Seriously, Sansa, it's not as if the truth is the plague."

"You…!" For once, Sansa was speechless. Arya one, Sansa zero.

"Father, she's trying to sully my reputation," said Sansa as she rallied. "And if Arya really wants to see a liar, she need only look in the mirror."

Why, that little−!

"Enough!" said Ned. The room fell silent. Arya had never seen her father so…_angry_ before.

"Go to your room, Arya," he said, more calmly and softly this time. For the first time, Arya noticed how tired her father looked and how much older he seemed. But she was too upset to care. She was tired of it all too; she just wanted to go home. She wished the King had never come to Winterfell.

But, like Damon said, you couldn't always get what you wished for.

She shook off the septa's hands and stormed off to her room. Closing the heavy door behind her, she opened the coffer containing her clothes and dug to the very bottom where she'd hidden her sword. If Jon were here, things would be so much better. At least she'd have someone to talk to.

She tried to practise with Needle, pretending she was driving it deep into Joffrey's heart and watching herself move in her blurry mirror. It didn't look right, and it didn't feel right. How did Robb and Jon do it back home? She tried to remember.

A knock came on the door.

"May I come in?" asked her father.

Well, she couldn't say no. Besides, she wasn't really angry at her father. She was just angry at the world. She opened the door to let him in. His presence seemed to fill the little room.

"Where did you get that?" he asked as soon as he saw her sword. Oops. She hadn't meant to let him see it.

"It was a present," said Arya.

Ned held out his hand for it, and she reluctantly handed it over, afraid he would confiscate it. After all, what lord would let his daughter play with a sword? She'd certainly never heard of such a lord.

"This is castle-forged steel," said her father. "It's Mikken's work."

"Jon gave it to me," Arya admitted.

"You miss them, don't you? Your brothers," said Ned. He sat down on Arya's bed and patted the spot beside him. She sat down and let him pull her against him. She'd always liked leaning against him when he told her stories when she had been small. That hadn't happened very often, because her father usually had very little to do with her. He had too many duties as lord. If he had any time to spend with his children, he was always spending time with Robb and teaching him how to be lord.

"I want to go home," said Arya. "I don't like it here."

He kissed the top of her head before he gave her back Needle. "A sword is not a toy, Arya," he said. "If you're going to own one, you should know how to use it."

* * *

**Review replies: **

**Guest: "**Woow love it you make my day !"

_Thanks! We're glad you liked it! _

**Lolcats: "**Loved this chapter, a little bit of everything (except Damon) Looking forward to the next! Update soon plez"

_Here's some Damon for variety. And more Tullys! We hope you enjoyed this chapter too! _

**Daemonia: **"I love this story!  
And it didn't bother at all that this was J/E centric, couse I really like that paring (All though it doesnt beat D/E)  
Hope u ll update soon!:'3"

_Jon and Elena aren't _quite _a pairing yet. She still has a connection with Damon. Bottom, it's complicated, like Elena said. :) _

**Guest: **"Hopefully theres more Katherine and Edmure"

_Hope you enjoyed the Katherine and Edmure moment here. But keep in mind that Edmure has a handsome charming young nephew who lives in the north. ;) _

**Anonymous: **"This is absolutely brilliant. Please continue!"

_Thanks! We're glad you're liking the story. We have several chapters planned and drafted so keep an eye out for another chapter next Friday. _

**Anon: **"awesome idea! all the characters are so realistic, the story is really well-written."

_Thank you so much! We try our best! _


	13. A Case of Identity

**Chapter 13: A Case of Identity**

**King's Landing**

It was a preposterous idea that Cat was in King's Landing. Why _would_ she be in King's Landing? Still, Petyr Baelish had been a good friend –thus far− and Ned was inclined to trust him.

Until they came to the doorway of the brothel.

Ned was vaguely aware that killing his only friend in King's Landing was probably not the best thing to do, but this insult was beyond any reason. He could barely see through the haze of red that clouded his judgement. A Stark's honour was all he had, and a Stark never forgot an insult.

For a moment, a look of utter surprise flitted across Baelish's face as Ned slammed him against the wall and pinned him there, with his arm pressing up against his neck, almost cutting off his air but not quite. However, he regained his composure soon enough. "What is this?" he asked Ned in a tone not dissimilar to the one the lord of Winterfell used to try and mediate between his daughters. Just like with Sansa and Arya, Ned would not be placated by it.

"You said you were going to bring me to see my wife!" snarled Ned.

"And I am −"

"Why would she be here?"

He was about to threaten him into telling the real truth. Was this a trap? Was he trying to besmirch his honour? Was he trying to be funny because it wasn't funny!

"Ned!"

The hiss above caught his attention. Cat? His grip on Baelish slackened. She was such a strange sight in the surrounds of one of King's Landing's most notorious pleasure houses, like a turtledove amongst butterflies. Cat jerked her head, indicating he should come inside. It was an action he'd seen a thousand times. She used it with the boys when she wanted them to do something. She used it with him when she wanted him to do something. The familiar gesture made his heart lighten even as he wondered why she possibly needed to come here and why she had gone to Petyr Baelish of all people. He forgot about the Master of Coin he was still pinning to the wall and went inside.

* * *

It had been an interesting morning of debatable productivity. For Damon, the day had started just after midnight, in Flea Bottom, when he had found a particularly unsavoury sell-sword forcing people to give up their purses at knife point. The sell-sword now stewed with a pot of brown, feeding the very people he had robbed, with his blood drained first, of course. His sword was left for some lucky man to find. No one would care, maybe except the people eating him. It was Flea Bottom. One could not even see the shadow of a city guard there, much less an actual guard.

And now he was taking a well-earned rest after yesterday's guard duty and before today's, enjoying the hospitality of his latest untrustworthy friend Petyr Baelish. What he hadn't known before was that he wasn't the only one from Winterfell taking advantage of Baelish's munificence.

"No, no, no, no," he said. The girl on the pole pouted. "You're not climbing up a fire escape pole. You are _lifting_ yourself up on thin air. The pull of the earth has _no_ effect on you, got it?"

"Why can't we just fuck?" she asked. "I'm good at that."

Damon rolled his eyes. "Because that's just boring. If I wanted a fuck, I wouldn't have to pay this kind of money," he said. Actually, he wasn't paying anything. He couldn't afford Baelish's whores. In exchange for…services rendered, he was teaching them to pole dance. They were awful at it. Their arms were weak, their bellies, although flat in general, were flabby, and their voluptuous legs had no muscle definition. Westerosian men liked their women soft. They only knew soft women.

Perhaps it might have been easier to teach them body sushi –body pastries in this case− but that would leave them enough breath to talk, and he wanted to listen in on the conversations going on next door.

Pycelle he could tune out. The man was practically senile when he was with whores. It was only when the whores left and he was making himself respectable again that his true nature revealed itself as a sly old fox that only emerged from its lair after dark. Rather, it was Ned Stark, Catelyn Stark, and Petyr Baelish who had caught his attention.

"I know that knife," Baelish was saying of the Valyrian steel dagger with the gold-gilt handle that the assassin had left behind when he had failed so miserably to kill a comatose boy. "It's mine." Awkward pause. Damon wondered if Ned had already killed him like he had been about to do outside.

"Well, it _was_ mine until I lost it in a bet," continued Baelish, obviously still alive.

"To whom?" demanded Ned.

"Tyrion Lannister."

Damon frowned. Something was not right. He'd always taken Tyrion Lannister to be an intelligent man; one who would _not_ need to kill nine-year-old boys –or was it ten?− to protect himself. And even if he were to kill a nine-year-olds, or ten-year-olds, why would he send incompetent assassins with such a distinctive incriminating dagger? And what motive did Tyrion Lannister have? He'd spent most of his time in Winterfell in the library or antagonizing his sister at feasts by enjoying himself.

Something smelled fishy, and it had nothing to do with the grilled sea bass he'd eaten.

* * *

The report rounded up the end of a rather bad day. First, he was almost strangled by Eddard Stark for trying to help him –and he did not even get an apology for it − and now _Hoster Tully_ was trying to get his entire family into the Small Council? He hadn't even heard of Kamren Tully! And they would slaughter Edmure, no doubt. Poor Edmure.

Petyr crushed the intercepted letter in his hand. There would be no Tullys on the Small Council if he could help it. In fact, there would be no one _else_ except himself on the Small Council if he could help it, although he simply couldn't. And what if Stark finally did figure out that surrounding himself with people he could rely on would be the safest way? Petyr had worked too hard to get himself to where he was today to be displaced or have his power diluted by _Ned Stark_'s machinations.

No, it simply wouldn't do. There would be a lot of negotiations ahead. Surely there was something else the Tullys would want. Trade? Non-fish dinners?

* * *

**Winterfell**

The road to Winterfell was dominated by grey grassy tundra on both sides. Only a few hills and hardy trees broke up the landscape. The grass that grew was tough and spiky, with blades that could probably cut flesh if one were not careful enough. A letter from Jon to his brother, scribed by Sam, crackled between her clothes as she moved with the horse. She hadn't read it yet, and she hadn't asked what was in it. From what he had told her, Jon was particularly close with Robb. Already, that gave her a good impression about the acting lord of Winterfell.

As they turned south-west toward the city, things suddenly became greener and more alive, even though they were still seeing more plants and deer than people. Soon they came across little villages with thatched roofs and mud-brick chimneys. Peasants looked up from their work in the fields as they rode by between the seas of tawny wheat that waved as the wind passed by. The peasants' backs were permanently bent from the work they did, and their faces looked so gaunt and old, yet most of them were probably only in their thirties or forties.

"Winter is harsh for the smallfolk," said Tyrion. "And winter is coming, as it always is."

"How long do winters usually last?" asked Elena. She was never going to get used to the fact that the seasons were not regular in Westeros. They didn't even have spring or fall! Fall was her favourite season, what with carving pumpkins and dressing up in scary costumes and the anticipation of Christmas.

"It depends," said Tyrion. "Sometimes a year. Sometimes seven."

She shuddered to think of how the peasants would cope. Probably as well as refugees in the Congo. Or worse.

The turrets of Winterfell rose from the landscape like it had always been a part of it. Climbing plants crept up the base of the outer city walls. She wasn't sure it qualified as a city. It didn't look quite…populated enough. She recognized the market Jon had described to her, complete with a statue of Brandon the Builder.

"Beads for the pretty lady?" asked a child who held up a basket of wooden bracelets and necklaces for her to examine. More people of all ages tried to sell them things. She followed Tyrion and Yoren's example and ignored them. Not that she actually had money; not even a single copper.

The great hall reminded her of an old medieval cathedral without the frescoes and the stained glass windows and all the pretty things that came with a cathedral. The first thing she noticed was how dark it was and how it smelled of pine smoke. Fresh rushes had been laid on the floor, and they crackled as she walked over them. Robb Stark sat at the very front, his back straighter than a spear.

His features were sharper and harder than Jon's, and he had the most piercing blue eyes she'd ever seen, apart from Damon's. He set his mouth in a grim line when he saw them. Beside him sat an old man –presumably Maester Luwin− and a young man who had to be Theon Greyjoy.

"Lord Robb, we meet again," said the dwarf with a bow. Elena lingered at the back, unsure of what to do. Should she curtsey? Should she say something? No, probably not. She wouldn't do anything until Robb Stark actually acknowledged her. Unlike Jon, who simply behaved like a lordling –although he was much improved now− Robb was _actually_ a lordling. And unlike on the Wall, where she had some sort of status and where the pecking order had been partially established through threats and violence, they were a little more formal here in Winterfell.

She fidgeted, causing Jon's letter to crackle again. It made her feel a little better, as if the letter with his words on it could act as some sort of protective amulet. And if all else failed, she could always bring out Damon's name, right? Jon had said Robb and Damon were friends, in a manner of speaking.

"Tyrion Lannister," said Robb. "Why are you here?"

"Am I not welcome in Winterfell? And for your information, I am looking for your brother Bran? Is he here? I would very much like to see him," said the dwarf.

Robb told Theon to bring Bran, and then turned his icy gaze back to the three visitors. His dark brows drew together a little closer when he saw her, but then he swallowed his surprise as if nothing had happened. Elena wasn't even sure she'd seen his expression change.

"I had a somewhat warmer welcome the last time I was here," Tyrion remarked.

"Any man of the Night's Watch is welcome in Winterfell," said Robb.

"Any man of the Night's Watch, but not I, eh, boy?" asked Tyrion.

She gasped. He did _not _call Robb Stark a boy! He was like…she didn't know...but maybe…Alexander the Great? He was the only boy-king she could remember. Oh, and Tutankhamen, but he was more famous for being dead than alive. It wouldn't be an apt comparison at all.

"I'm not your 'boy', Lannister," said Robb. His voice remained calm, but it bore an edge. A sharpened blade, she supposed, would be considered peaceful until it was actually used against someone. "I am lord of Winterfell while my father is away."

"Then you might learn a lord's courtesy," said Tyrion.

And he might as well just have stuck out his neck and be done with it. If Jon took insults badly, how would Robb take them?

The skin around Robb's lips whitened a little, but Bran's timely arrival in the arms of the simple giant Hodor saved them all from the consequences of Lannister snark and Stark temper. The boy was dark haired like both his brothers, with sad dark eyes like Jon's. He dangled limply in the giant's arms, unwilling to be here, resigned to the idea that he would never walk again. Her heart was seized with pity. He was only nine.

Tyrion greeted him with a little more gentleness in his voice than she had ever heard and then proceeded to ask him if he remembered anything about his accident before giving him a design for a saddle that would allow him to ride again. The hopeful expression on the boy's face was almost enough to warm the chill of the halls. "Will I really be able to ride again?" he asked.

"Indeed," said Tyrion with a smile. "And on horseback, you'll be as tall as any of them."

Robb's voice, when he spoke next, was just a degree warmer than it had been before. "You have done my brother a kindness," he said. "The hospitality of Winterfell is yours." Clever Tyrion. Everyone liked presents.

Tyrion scoffed. "Thank you, but no thank you," he said. "There's a brothel outside your walls. I'll find a bed there and we'll both sleep easier." He brushed past Yoren and Elena, and as he did so, he winked. That dwarf! No, one really did not need to feel sorry for him. He could take care of himself just fine. And really, that mental image of him…no, she could not think about that. Not that it was _ever_ going to go away.

Robb watched him go, his mouth slightly open as if he wanted to say something scathing, but simply had no idea what to say. He changed his mind about trying and turned his attention to the two remaining visitors. "Any man of the Night's Watch is welcome here," he repeated, "but I never expected to welcome a woman of the Night's Watch."

"I'm not really of the Watch, my lord," said Elena, dipping an awkward curtsey that made Robb raise his eyebrow. Just the one, mind you.

"We took her in when she had no place to go, m'lord," said Yoren, "but now I am taking her south to King's Landing."

"Is there any news from the Wall?" asked Robb.

"I have a letter from Jon Snow, my lord," said Elena. She withdrew the wrinkled letter and handed it to Robb. He took it without taking his eyes off her. She was beginning to wonder if she was naked or something, judging by the way everyone was staring at her. She supposed a woman coming from the Wall was rarer than tropical fruit here.

"You know my brother?" asked Robb.

"Jon and I are…" What were they? "We're friends."

"If there are girls like that on the Wall, I'm taking the black," Theon leaned over to whisper. Robb gave him a withering look before he unfolded the letter and scanned it. For the first time since she'd met him, she could _almost_ believe he was just a teenager thrust into a position of great power and responsibility.

"You'd still have to be celibate, Lord Theon," she said.

Robb gave a lordly snort. "That is never going to happen, Mistress…" His voice trailed off. "Elena? _Damon_'s Elena?"

That was starting to get annoying. Why did everyone seem to think she _belonged_ to Damon or something? First Jon, and now Robb Stark too?

"I am no one's Elena. I belong to myself."

"He said you'd say that," Theon murmured. "It's no wonder he's been completely spoiled for all others."

"Be polite, Theon," said Robb before he focused on Elena again. "Any friend of Jon's is a friend of mine." For the first time, he smiled, and she realized how handsome he really was. Those Stark boys were really blessed when it came to genetics.

"Forgive me for seeming too bold, my lord," she said, "but I was wondering…is Bonnie around?"

"Do you know Bonnie?" blurted out Theon before Robb could stop him.

"I've known her ever since she convinced me to eat mud when we were three," said Elena. "She said it was cake."

* * *

The squealing and the hugging and the tears must have scared all the other denizens of Winterfell, including the indomitable Lord Robb, but Bonnie hardly cared as she hugged her best friend. Knowing that she was alive and here…words could not describe how she was feeling. It was so good to know that she was _not_ alone in Westeros with Damon. That had been a nightmare.

"How did you cope? It was the _Wall_," she asked Elena late that night when the rest of the castle were sleeping. The two of them couldn't sleep. They had far too much catching up to do!

"It's the Wall, not the Heart of Darkness," said Elena. "It was actually…pretty good. But enough about me. What about you?"

Bonnie told her everything. "And now I'm a scribe until they can find a better replacement. I hope to the goddess the ink stains aren't permanent," she said. "What are you going to do now that they've chased you off the Wall? Do you think you'd stay here? With me?"

Elena smiled and took both Bonnie's ink-stained hands in her own. The candle flickered as a little wind escaped through the shutters. "Maybe," she said. "It certainly doesn't seem like a bad prospect particularly if the boys like blood sausages, but I think I'd like to head south first. Damon's in King's Landing."

Of course. Damon.

* * *

**Riverrun**

_The arrow struck the rabbit, skewering its heart and killing it instantly. She reined in her horse. "It's a perfect shot, my lord," she said. _

"_I would expect it to be perfect," said Edmure, but he sat a little straighter in his saddle as he sent his squire to fetch the kill. The leaves on the boughs above them shook gently in the warm breeze which brought the scent of the nearby river, fish guts and all, to them. The skirt of her new dress rippled. She smoothed it down; the fine wool was soft against her skin. _

_The limp body of the little rabbit, with its eyes already turning glassy, was added to their collection of trophy animals, including a brace of partridges, three other rabbits, and a squirrel. The handful of nuts they had found in the late squirrel's burrow did not count. _

_Edmure suddenly sighed. "I will miss this when I go to King's Landing," he said. _

"_Have you heard back from Lord Stark?" she asked. _

"_No, not yet," said Edmure, "but I expect we shall receive a reply any day now. I suppose it is a good opportunity to prove to my father and my cousins that I am capable." _

_It was either that, or confirm the suspicion that he really was not. _

"_Why should you need to prove anything to anyone, my lord?" she asked. _

"_You speak sweet words, Mistress Bard." _

_The sky darkened and began to rumble. Fat drops of rain plopped onto the leaves, gathering into even bigger drops before falling on the hunters below. Within moments, they were drenched. Edmure tried to shelter her with his cloak as they made their mad dash back to the castle. Alas, his cloak leaked. _

_People gave them sidelong glances when they rode into the city side by side. Their whispers, incoherent at first, grew louder. Edmure stiffened and gripped his sword so hard his knuckles turned white as someone sneered and wondered out loud what position she liked to do it in best. _

_She placed a hand on his arm. "My lord," she said. _

_He turned to her. "They are disparaging your character. I should have their heads." _

"_Leave them," she said. "they are not worth your time." _

"_You have a kind heart," said Edmure. "I am not so forgiving." _

_Silly Edmure. He was so earnest. She had only met him a week ago and he was already helplessly smitten. Little did he know he was only a diversion. After all, what was a girl to do? She had spare time in spades and nothing to do with it._

* * *

**King's Landing**

Saying goodbye this time was even harder. He was not used to seeing his wife leaving him. Even on the few occasions when she had gone to Riverrun to visit her family, he had been more irritable than usual until her return. Usually he was the one leaving things behind.

"I wish I could see the girls," she said. "I miss them."

"No one must know you're here," he said as he stroked her cheek. The years had made her softer, less sharp than the fiery Catelyn Tully he had married. "The girls are doing well and settling into the capital." Well, Sansa was doing well, although he didn't like how close she was getting with the Lannisters. As for Arya, well, she would be happier with him soon, he thought. He had a surprise for her. He hoped she would like her present more than Sansa liked hers. Didn't all girls play with dolls until they got married? Then again, he knew nothing about girls. He was pretty sure his daughters were not normal and they had been less normal than usual ever since the arrival of one Salvatore. Hopefully, they weren't fighting over him.

Catelyn pulled her hood over her head to cover her prominent red Tully hair. "Look after yourself, Ned," she said.

He would have asked her to look after herself too, but he wasn't very good with saying these things. Instead, he bent down to kiss her, pulling her against him. Kissing her still made him a little nervous, as if he were a young man of twenty trying to figure out whether his bride actually liked him or not. Love and respect had grown out of their many years of marriage, but he still wondered whether he had ever been _in_ love with her and she with him.

Her cloak fluttered about her as she rode away, Rodrik being her ever loyal guard. They blended into the crowds of King's Landing, just another two travellers passing through.

* * *

A surprise? Arya hoped it would be a good surprise. She wouldn't be angry at her father for getting her a really bad present –because none of his presents had ever been particularly good, but she loved him for trying anyway− but she was hoping that for once, he would get it right. Hopefully it wasn't a doll. She hadn't ever played with dolls except for when she and Bran had beheaded them when they'd played The Rebellion, much to Old Nan's dismay. Arya hadn't understood what was so terrifying about it. The dolls' heads could be re-attached so they could be beheaded over and over again. Theon had laughed and said that he pitied the man who would become her husband.

Her father brought her to the empty room that overlooked the gardens which she knew he sometimes used for practise. That seldom happened now, for her father had exchanged his sword for the pen. It was a poor trade in Arya's opinion. She'd always loved watching him teaching her brothers to spar when he had the time, and she had wished that he would spar with her. It had never happened. Fathers never sparred with their daughters.

A strange little man with dark hair and swarthy skin waited for them, his hands clasped behind his back. He was dressed in strange clothes and boots that folded over at the top.

"Who are you?" asked Arya.

"Arya, be polite," said her father with a smile. He seemed very pleased with himself. "This is your new dancing master."

Dancing master? This was his idea of a nice surprise? Well, maybe he got credit for trying…

"I am Syrio Forel, First Sword of Braavos," said the little man. "I will teach you to dance, to move with the grace of water, to perceive as a warrior ought…" From behind his back, he produced two wooden swords.

Seven hells! This wasn't a dancing master. This was…!

"Is this really for me? You're not joking?" she asked, turning to her father.

"Like I said, you own a sword. You need to know how to use it," said Ned. He gave her a little nudge forward. "Go on."

She happily bounded forward and took one of the swords Syrio offered her. Soon, she forgot all about Ned being there.

* * *

He looked left. He looked right. He looked up, just in case Ned had gotten into the habit of hiding in the rafters –highly unlikely, but not completely impossible. Nope. The Hand's study was thankfully devoid of hands right now. Damon closed the door softly behind him. The book sat to one side of Ned's desk next to piles of carefully arranged vellum pages. The man was slightly OCD when it came to organizing his documents, and God knew he had enough of them.

Damon carefully opened the book so as to not disturb anything and pulled out a jar of pink powder from his pocket.

Westerosians weren't known for their stringent hand-washing habits, and as anyone knew, dirty hands left marks which weren't always visible to the naked eye. And fresh fingerprints would always show up stronger than old ones.

He didn't have time to ponder over the seriously boring and meaningless lineages on every page. After all, Jon Arryn had already done the leg work. He dusted every page with the pink powder –he'd tried to find something that looked a bit more like traditional fingerprint powder, but unfortunately, the only thing fine enough had been women's blush.

He liberally dusted each page with powder and then swept the excesses back into the jar, taking care not to spill any on Ned's desk. It left behind pink streaks and blots of varying degrees of concentration. Most of these pages came away pretty clean, having not been touched in the past decade or so. And then he came to the Baratheon page.

The marks were _everywhere_, and they were fresh, particularly around Joffrey's entry. Damon quickly dusted a few more pages. The Lannister page, too, was covered in fresh fingerprints. He flicked between the two.

Somebody Baratheon, black of hair.

Somebody Lannister, golden haired.

Somebody Baratheon, black of hair.

Somebody Lannister, golden haired.

Robert Baratheon, black of hair. That was not very accurate because Robert's hair was more brown, and now it was beginning to turn grey.

Jaime Lannister…well, he didn't need to read that entry. He'd met the man and he was as blond as any of them.

Joffrey Baratheon, too, was blo−

Fucking hell.

And then the door opened.

Damon grabbed the book with all its incriminating pink marks and escaped through the only exit available, and he could only hope no one saw him hanging out the window of the Hand's study.


	14. Safe Haven

**Chapter 14: Safe Haven**

**Inn of the Kneeling Man - Riverlands**

It grew warmer as they progressed southward. Elena drank in the sights and sounds –all right, most of it was forest and farmland and one got used to that pretty quickly, but there were occasionally trading caravans that passed them, carrying colourful goods from King's Landing and beyond, making her wonder what was beyond. Tyrion insisted that once they arrived, she should let him help her pick out some fabric for a few proper dresses. "I may not be a good swordsman, nor am I even a decent archer, but I know my fabrics," he said.

"That would be very kind, Lord Tyrion," she said.

Yoren snorted and said nothing, but she could practically taste his disapproval for the frou-frou fashions of King's Landing. Then again, this was the man who wore nothing but black, and thought personal hygiene consisted of wiping his hands on his dirty tunic before eating.

Another letter rustled beneath her clothes. This one was from Robb. He'd mentioned that he'd written her a recommendation to his father and he had been very kind about it. Elena was beginning to like the Starks very much. They were old-fashioned, sometimes snobby, but honest and generally good people, and they seemed to be such a close family, and Bonnie confirmed it. Then again, anyone who could tolerate Damon after such a short period of acquaintance got a gold star in her book.

"You never did tell me what that letter says," said Tyrion.

"I don't know what the letter says, milord," said Elena. "I didn't read it."

"Really?" He seemed intrigued by the idea of not reading a letter not meant for her eyes.

"I don't read other people's letters," said Elena. "That's just rude."

"Well, I do and I'm not averse to being rude." He held out his hand for the letter.

"If you think I'm going to give the letter to you, I don't think you know me very well."

Tyrion gave a dramatic sigh. "Where is your sense of curiosity?" he asked.

"Where's your sense of propriety?"

He pursed his lips and shrugged. "To be honest with you –and you should savour this moment because I am seldom honest with anyone− I don't think I ever had one."

Elena rolled her eyes, and then stopped in mid-roll because one was not supposed to roll one's eyes at a lord. "Well, milord, you're still not getting that letter," she said.

"You're no fun at all," said Tyrion. They rode on, with Elena keeping her eyes trained firmly on the road in front of her. The horse's rhythm lulled her into a safe cocoon, and she let her mind wander. How far were they from the Wall now? She tried to calculate the date. The new recruits would be swearing their oaths soon. She'd wanted to be there for their graduation. After all, she'd helped to train at least one of them. And how was Benjen's recovery? He'd been lucid when she'd left, but still weak and unable to remember very much about his ordeal, not even the words that he'd kept on muttering.

She would write as soon as she reached King's Landing to let them know she'd arrived safely and to ask all these questions that were running around in her mind.

King's Landing. She didn't know what to expect. Tyrion had described a gleaming metropolis with every joy and grief humanity could hope to experience. He particularly enjoyed scaring her with stories of past violence in the aptly named Red Keep. "People think it's named for its red stone, which is, by the way, pink. I think it's named rather for the blood that has been spilled in its halls," said Tyrion.

Yoren seemed to think it was the very pit of humanity where men's spirits wasted away through crime, poverty, or luxury.

About an hour before nightfall, they passed a little ramshackle inn filled to the brim with travellers seeking rest for the night. If it had been up to her, Elena would have chosen to continue through the night. It was not that the inn's patrons seemed to be people of the most unsavoury kind; they were unwashed, with hard faces and bloodshot eyes. She could deal with men. What she couldn't deal with was the prospect of bed bugs and fleas and God knew what else made its home in this place. It most certainly didn't seem as if it had a cleaning service. She would never complain about those little dingy motels Damon had made her stay in during their road trip to South Carolina again. At least they'd had showers.

Tyrion and Yoren seemed to have no such qualms. "I'm looking forward to a good meal and some strong stout ale," the dwarf remarked.

"I'll settle for some bread and meat and a bed," said Yoren.

Elena looked around. Well, at least the abundance of unsavoury people would mean she would surely come across a criminal or something rather that she could drink. If all else failed, there was always the wildlife, and not the invertebrate ones.

The little dining room was absolutely crowded, with nary so much as an empty surface. Elbows bumped elbows as men shovelled their meals into their mouths or mulled over pewter tankards of ale.

"Is there no room available?" Tyrion asked the inn keep. The dirty little man stopped wiping a cup with his equally dirty apron –just as well vampires did not get food poisoning from germs, or else she'd have been making a beeline for the door− and looked around the crowded room. No, obviously not.

Tyrion sighed and then pulled out a golden coin. Of _course_. Lannisters and their gold.

"You can have my room," said a man from the corner. His armour was terribly dirty, but beneath the dirt, Elena saw few hints of rust. Obviously he was a man who knew how to care for his armour. And he knew how to take care of himself too. A gold dragon was worth spending the night outdoors or in a stable. What did a room in this inn cost? Probably not a gold dragon. She knew that much.

"I'm much obliged, my friend," said Tyrion as he tossed the coin at the man. He caught it deftly and bit it just to make sure it really was gold.

The dwarf made to go and sit down by the man, but then he paused by a group of travellers who seemed cleaner than most.

"Lady Catelyn?" said Tyrion.

What the hell was Jon's stepmother doing in a place like this?

* * *

_No one noticed her as she sat in the corner. The dead bard's harp sat on a stool next to her. It had a good sound, and it matched her voice well, judging from the coins that clinked in her money pouch. All right, half of that had been from the bandits. Waste not, want not. That wasn't to say her audience hadn't paid her well either. In fact, Edmure and his family had paid her very well, but it had been time to leave before the poor young lord of Riverrun became too attached. _

_He had been sad to see her go. In fact, he had not so subtly implored her to stay. But Riverrun was not her be all and end all. There was a whole world out there waiting for her, and greater families than the Tullys to seduce. If all else failed, she could simply return. Absence made the heart grow fonder. _

_Her hood kept her face in shadow as she watched the developments unfolding before her. It was no secret that the Lannister queen had little love for the Stark Hand, and she was curious to see how this would end. Probably not prettily, either way. But what was more interesting was the girl who stood by the dwarf. _

_Elena, Elena, Elena. When would she learn how to stay out of trouble that she couldn't get herself out of? _

_Catelyn Stark rallied her father's minor vassals to her cause, accusing the dwarf of having tried to murder her son. Twice. He couldn't have been very good at murder, could he? _

_They surrounded the dwarf and his company. Elena clenched her fist and her eyes narrowed. Surely she didn't think−then again, Elena didn't really _think_, and she'd always been delusional. _

"_No, no, no," Tyrion Lannister said. "I know that look, Elena. That's the same look my brother gets whenever he's about to do something stupid." _

"_You expect me to do nothing?" Elena whispered so softly that only those closest to her, and herself, of course, could hear. _

"_Yes," said the Lannister dwarf. At least someone had a brain. "I'm a Lannister. They can't hurt me, or else my father will stick all their heads on spikes. He's fond of doing that." He patted her hand like someone comforting a little girl, which was exactly what Elena was. "I'll be fine." _

_The Stark and Tully men bound the dwarf's hands with rough hemp rope and blindfolded him with black cloth torn from a cloak. Half of the inn's patrons, including the irritating tone-deaf vagabond who thought himself a bard –he was an insult to the profession− left with them. The false bard was already trying to compose songs about dead dwarfs and half-sized spikes for his head. Spikes, of course, were one-size-fits-all. _

"_Are you just going to let them take him?" Elena demanded of her remaining companion. He wore black. Hmm…a man of the Night's Watch, perhaps? But what was Elena doing with a man of the Night's Watch? _

"_It's not my business," said the man. "It's not yours either." _

"_But we have to do something!" _

"_Yes, we do. We'll continue on our way and I'll deliver you to Lord Stark as was planned. What you do after that is your business." _

_Lord Stark? Well, it seemed as if Damon and Elena were going to get a lovely reunion. She'd love to be there for it, but her life could not revolve around those two pathetic lovebirds. Rather, she was more interested in what Catelyn Stark had in mind. It couldn't have been a very good idea, considering what the Lannisters were. This was a diplomatic disaster in the making. Tywin Lannister would never let this pass, and neither would Queen Cersei; if not for familial affection, then for familial reputation. _

_She had to head back north. Where there was a disaster, there would be opportunity, and where there was opportunity, she always thrived._

* * *

**Casterly Rock**

"What can you do, girl?"

Rebekah resented being called a girl, but she supposed an old man who had no idea who or what she was wouldn't really know better. And Tywin Lannnister was probably condescending to everyone and anyone he ever met.

"I can fight," she said.

A knight snorted. "You're a woman. Women don't fight."

"I could beat you with one arm tied behind my back," Rebekah said to him with a smile. No, no fangs. She had to resist the urge. Oh, if only Elijah could see her self-control now. He was always chiding her about not having any.

Tywin's eyebrow twitched. "You," he said to the knight. "Bind her arm behind her back and then you will fight her."

"Milord, it would not be honourable to fight a woman, particularly not if she is further disadvantaged−"

"Are you afraid you'll lose?" said Rebekah.

The man gaped at her. His mouth opened and closed like a fish's out of water.

"If you win, girl, I'll make you a knight," said Tywin. "If you lose, however−"

"I don't lose," said the vampire. As an afterthought, she added: "My lord."

* * *

With her left arm bound tightly behind her back, the girl seemed as if she would definitely lose. She had no idea, but Amory Lorch, while intellectually challenged, had slaughtered men like cattle in battle and he had no qualms about killing women and children. But there was something about the girl and her self-assuredness, and for the first time in many years, Tywin's curiosity was piqued. Looking at her and Lorch, one got the feeling that she was lioness toying with a bristling house cat.

Lorch lunged at her, but she was too quick for him as she moved out of the way with the grace and ease of a dancer. The hold of the ground seemed to have no effect on her at all as she swung behind him and slammed the pommel of her tourney sword into the back of his head. Lorch staggered and whirled around, only to find himself facing her boot. Blood and teeth flew. The girl was still unharmed and not even breaking a sweat. "At least _try_ to make it a challenge, _ser_," she taunted.

The practise grounds were hushed. What had seemed like a good easy win now turned into something that made them all hold their breath. No man in living memory had seen a woman fight so confidently.

She delivered a kick to his midsection that made him double over, and then for good measure, struck his backside with the flat of her sword hard enough to send him sprawling. He fell forward into the dirt and as he lay there, she planted one small booted foot on the back of his neck.

"Do you yield?" she asked.

The reply was muffled by a mouthful of dust.

"I didn't hear you," said the girl, as if there could have been any other option for Lorch.

"That's enough, Rebekah," said Tywin. She'd had her fun, and she'd proven herself. Now he had a promise to fulfil and history to make. She turned to face him, her eyes full of sparkle and glee and satisfaction. Her full lips, her golden hair, her face so full of hopes and ambition for the future, her spirit not yet made bitter by years of reality; she reminded him very much of a younger, less jaded, badly trained Cersei.

"Kneel," he said.

No man uttered a word. Not that anyone dared. He unsheathed his sword and tapped the kneeling girl once on the right shoulder, and once on the left. "Arise, Lady Rebekah Mikaelson, knight of Casterly Rock."

* * *

Caroline couldn't believe it! Rebekah, a _knight_? She couldn't think of a less chivalrous person. Had she compelled Tywin Lannister? But it didn't seem like it, and besides, she'd tried compelling people here, and the only one who had did as he was told was Jorge Lannister. As everyone knew, and as she very quickly learned, he didn't have two brain cells to rub together, poor thing. If not for his brother Daemon, he'd have been dead of stupidity a long time ago.

After Rebekah had been knighted, Tywin turned his attention to Stefan.

"What is your name?" he asked.

"Stefan Salvatore," the vampire replied.

"Salvatore…as in Damon Salvatore?" asked Tywin. He narrowed his eyes.

Silence. A thousand thoughts bombarded Caroline's mind, all obscuring each other. Damon was here too? How did he get here? Where was he? How did Tywin know him? And was it a good thing or a bad thing to be associated with Damon?

"Yes," said Stefan. "He's my brother."

"He is in King's Landing serving Eddard Stark, the Hand of the King." The old man's voice betrayed no emotion, so Caroline couldn't tell what his opinion on Damon was. And where was King's Landing? Who was Eddard Stark, the Hand of the King? Was that…like…a very important person? And Damon was _serving_ someone? Damon? She was almost sure Tywin had gotten the wrong person. The Damon she knew didn't work for anyone or anything except himself unless that other person's name began with an 'E' and ended with 'lena'.

"I did not know, my lord, although Damon does as Damon pleases, and I'm usually the last one to know."

"Yet here you are, thousands of miles away from King's Landing," said Tywin. Uh oh. He was suspicious.

"We were separated when we were…exiled," said Stefan.

Exiled? That was a nice way to put it. Time travelled, more likely. Or dimension jumped? Or maybe it was like fanfiction, where ordinary American girls suddenly 'bamfed' into Middle-earth or Narnia and fell in love with Legolas or Aragorn or Faramir or Peter or Edmund or Caspian.

Yes, bamf was a good word for it. A good nonsensical word for a nonsensical situation.

But one could hardly use the word 'bamf' with the likes of Tywin Lannister. Was he like a king or something? If not a king, he had to be a duke or a count or a baron or something like that. Freaking aristocracy.

"And are you willing to serve House Lannister, Stefan Salvatore, even though your brother is in the service of House Stark?"

"Who he serves is his business, my lord," said Stefan. "I would be honoured to serve you."

"You are a pragmatic man, Stefan Salvatore. I can respect that."

And then, just like that, Stefan too, was recruited into the Lannister army as a man at arms, leaving Caroline the only one with no purpose to serve. Now there were high expectations to live up to.

"I don't fight as well as the other two, my lord," she said. "But I'm good at planning things. Events, parties, you name it, I can probably plan them."

"Maester," said Tywin.

An old man in a shapeless grey tent shuffled forward. His back was hunched from sitting in a bad posture for far too long each day, and he squinted from bad eyesight, but there was shrewdness in those myopic eyes.

"You said you needed a new clerk, Maester Ayjax?"

The 'maester' person nodded. "I do, my lord."

"Then it's settled."

Great. Rebekah was a _knight_, Stefan was a soldier, and she was a clerk.

She supposed it could have been worse. They could have tried to make her Rebekah's squire instead.

* * *

**King's Landing**

After the quietness and relative monotony of the Wall, the noise and life of King's Landing slammed into her like a punch to the gut. Her head reeled from it all, from the vendors to the stench to the beggars at the sides of the cobbled streets they rode through. The horses' hooves created a clattering rhythm, only to be drowned out by shouts and peddlers advertising their wares. The marketplace in Winterfell was one thing. This was another creature entirely.

"It's frightening at first, eh?" asked Yoren. Elena only nodded as she tried to re-acclimatize herself. She could do this. She'd been to Virginia Beach before. Just the once, and she'd gotten lost. In fact, she might have remained lost if not for her cell phone and this handy app called Google Maps. Unfortunately, Google hadn't penetrated the Westerosian yet.

She stuck by Yoren, afraid that if she got lost in this seething mire of humanity, she might be lost forever.

The Tower of the Hand rose like a monolith from ancient times. It probably _was_ ancient. The heavy wooden doors opened for them with a groan. As in Winterfell, Yoren was welcomed with geniality and admitted into the presence of Lord Eddard Stark. Elena swallowed, not sure of what to expect. Robb had been perfectly kind and accommodating –especially after he learned she was "Damon's Elena"− but could she expect the same from his father? And what if Damon was there? How would she react if she –_when _she saw him? She couldn't say. He had, after all, chased her away. He'd wanted her to leave him.

The Hand's study, in comparison to King's Landing's luxury, was spartan. Only one very generic tapestry of a wolf adorned the wall. Piles of parchment were neatly arranged on the desk, and there was one book on the otherwise empty bookshelf. Starks weren't big readers.

Yoren bowed, and Elena, unable to hide behind Tyrion's colourful and oversized character now that he was Lady Stark's prisoner, attempted an awkward curtsey.

"I ask your permission, m'lord, to take recruits back to the Wall," said Yoren.

"You will have your pick of men from the dungeons," said Eddard Stark. She could see the family resemblance between him and Jon, perhaps more so than between him and Robb, although she had spent a lot more time with Jon, so perhaps that affected her perception. His brown hair was tied back out of his face with a leather thong, and his brown eyes seemed kind, if a little reserved. "But I suspect you didn't come to see me just to ask me for men.

"I bring tidings from the north," said Yoren. "But perhaps the young lady might be a better person to tell you, m'lord."

Oh God. "Come forward, girl," said Jon's father. "You come from the north?"

"You could say that, my lord," said Elena, her throat suddenly dry. "I…uh…have a letter from Lord Robb." She fumbled for the crumpled letter and stepped forward to place it on his desk before quickly stepping back into place.

"How do you know my son?" Eddard's eyes narrowed as he broke the seal of the letter and scanned the first few lines.

"Well, I…"

Voices came from outside. "Run, kitty!" crooned a voice that could only belong to…

Damon came in, idly flicking through a pile of papers in his hands. "We have a situation, my lord. Some supplier's been price gouging grain and now the mob is calling for a lynching−" He stopped.

He looked as handsome and debonair as ever. His dark hair flopped in an unruly manner over his forehead, and he was wearing a loose white linen shirt tucked into a pair of…_well-fitting_ black trousers and knee high boots.

"Elena?" he whispered.

"Hey Damon," she said.

* * *

He was wandering through the halls towards Ned's study when something small and furry streaked by his feet. He reached down to snatch the yowling cat up by the scruff of its neck. It hissed at him and tried to scratch him.

"Here, cat!" Arya called as she rounded the corner. She skidded to a stop when she saw Damon dangling the cat in the air.

"What are you doing tormenting the cat, my lady?" he asked, genuinely curious. It seemed like quite a pointless activity when cats could probably be easily lured out with a bit of chicken liver or old fish. That was, if one did not mind the Hand's Tower smelling of rotting fish guts for the rest of the week.

"I'm not tormenting it. You're tormenting. _I'm_ chasing it," said Arya.

"I can see that," said Damon. The cat lashed out with a paw, all claws extended. Damon held it further away from him just in case.

"Syrio says I have to catch it because I need to be as quick and quiet as a cat," said Arya. "And why do you care? You're not my father."

"I don't care," said Damon. He set the cat down and it streaked off again, with Arya falling further and further behind. She was going to be at this for hours at this rate. "Run, kitty, run!"

"Shut up, Damon!" Arya called back.

The vampire grinned to himself and then composed his expression before he went through Ned's door. It wouldn't do to let him know that he'd been teasing his daughter _again_. He knew he could always simply refrain from doing it, but Arya was so easy to tease! The only other 'friends' he had here were Jory and Baelish, and neither of them ever rose to the bait. One was simply too good natured, and the other was far too smart and reasonable. The only thing that had come close to snarking had been the one line in a letter from Robb addressed to Ned remarking on how all the troubles in Winterfell seemed to have stopped now that Damon wasn't there to cause them anymore.

"We have a situation, my lord. Some supplier's been price gouging the grain and the mob is calling for a lynching−"

He forgot all about mobs and cats and suppliers when he looked up. All the papers in his hands fell to the floor. No, it couldn't be, but it _was_. She was standing there in front of him, dirty, tired, her hair tangled and her clothes wrinkled like she'd slept in them. But it was her. Elena Gilbert. A girl he'd thought he would never see again.

"Hey Damon," she said, almost shyly.

"You two know each other?" asked Ned. He glanced down at the piece of parchment in his hand again. Damon vaguely noted that the writing on it was Robb's. "You are Damon's Elena."

"I don't know why everyone seems to think I have to belong to someone! My lord." Elena's outburst jolted Damon out of his daze.

"How did you get here?" he asked her before Ned could say anything.

"By horse, I guess?" said Elena.

The dirty man behind her –black cloak, straggly hair, humourless expression; he had to be Night's Watch− pressed his lips together impatiently. "You can become reacquainted with your lover later, girl," he said. "There are more pressing matters Lord Stark must know." He stepped forward and leaned down to whisper to Elena's words for her ears only. "And I thought you were with Jon Snow?"

_Jon_?!

The Night's Watch man looked at Damon and narrowed his eyes. "Can he be trusted?"

"Ser Salvatore can be trusted insofar as any man in King's Landing can be trusted," said Ned. Damon would have liked to say something snarky, but his mind was a blank and he just couldn't think of anything.

He didn't know what was more shocking; the fact that Elena and Jon had something going on, or the news that Lady Catelyn had kidnapped Tyrion Lannister and was in the process of causing a diplomatic disaster.

Ned rubbed his face and proceeded to tap Robb's letter with his fingers while Elena and the Night's Watch brother told him all about how it had transpired and what Lady Catelyn had said to Tyrion Lannister before she had taken him. He did it a lot these days, tapping on things. It had only been a few months, but his work as the Hand was taking its toll on Ned. He seemed to have aged years. At this rate, he'd be digging himself an early grave. Or perhaps he had a crypt all prepared and picked out in Winterfell?

"Thank you for telling me, Yoren," said Ned. "I appreciate it."

"As a man of the Watch, I shouldn't be getting involved, but Benjen and I are friends," said Yoren.

Ned nodded. "You will have a bed here tonight, and tomorrow you shall have your pick of the men in the dungeons," he said. "As for you, Elena Gilbert, Robb has recommended I take you into my household as a companion for Sansa and Arya. He says you have nowhere else to go."

Damon didn't know how he felt about that. Living with Elena when he didn't know how she felt about him? What about the sire bond? He wanted her to have her free will back…at least, angel!Damon did. Demon!Damon was perched on his other shoulder telling him that it didn't really matter. He had Elena, and no one, not Stefan and most definitely not _Jon_ _Snow_ was going to take her from him. With anyone else, it wouldn't have mattered, but this wasn't just anyone. This was Elena. She made him want to be better simply by being herself. He couldn't enslave her with a blood bond. That was _Klaus'_ modus operandi, and look how well that turned out for him. Also, it was _Elena_. He didn't want a puppet. He wanted her.

"If there's nothing else, my lord, I shall see if the city guard needs any aid." Damon bowed and left the room, hoping that everything would somehow right itself.


	15. Dear Jon

**Chapter 15: Dear Jon**

**King's Landing**

Seeing Damon again was strangely liberating and terrifying. She still cared for him deeply, and she was happy that he was here, because at least she wouldn't be surrounded by unfamiliar faces in a hostile place. But that pull she'd felt towards him back in Mystic Falls when she'd first been turned, that desire to make him happy regardless of cost, that need to just be with him all day and all night…it was gone. It was as if she could breathe again in his presence, and a great weight she hadn't even known about had been lifted from her chest.

Elena was no longer bound to Damon, and while she would always love him, she was no longer _in_ love with him. Those feelings had burned fiercely like a supernova, and but they had burned themselves out.

Or perhaps the ice on the Wall had quenched those fires. She didn't know. It was confusing, and this revelation frightened her. Without the bond, it was suddenly like she was a boat adrift on the wide sea after her anchor had been broken. They would have to talk about it sometime, but how did one talk about such things? She didn't want to see him hurt. That was the last thing in the world she wanted.

She was so deeply mired in her thoughts that she almost forgot to answer Lord Stark's question, and if hadn't been for Yoren giving her a nudge, she might just have gone on without answering it.

"Yes, of course I will be Lady Sansa and Lady Arya's companion, if you think I'm the right person for the job, my lord," she said. "I can't thank you enough for taking me in, Lord Stark."

"Do your job well, and I will consider your debt repaid," said Eddard. "Sansa and Arya are growing, and they need someone closer to their own age to help them learn their roles. I trust my son's judgement and I admire anyone who can tame Damon Salvatore." Was that a smile? Yes! It was a smile!

* * *

The clothes she was given were simple and functional. But to Elena, who had spent months on the Wall dressed in clothes scrounged from the men's discarded garments –and considering the…erm…_wealth_ of the Watch, that said something for the state of her appearance during those few months– the dress was the prettiest thing she had ever owned in Westeros. It was made of light grey linen and it went over a long white undershirt, with laces at the front so she wouldn't actually need someone to help her with it. That would defeat the point. _She _was the lady's maid. She didn't get a maid herself.

She tied her hair back in a long braid. Well, it was time to face the music, or rather, her new employers. She felt as if she knew them already, with everything Jon had told her about them. A knock sounded on her door.

"You ready?" asked Damon as he opened it and peeked around.

She whirled to face him, having expected someone else. "Damon! You scared me! Listen. We need to talk…"

"Now is not a good time, Elena," said Damon. King's Landing had made him harder to read, for he had learned the art all politicians seemed to possess of having absolutely no expression whatsoever. He was still Damon, but not quite the same Damon as when she had left him at his behest. Then again, she wasn't quite the same Elena either. "Come on. You don't keep Sansa and Arya waiting. It's just not done."

She followed him down the stone hallway, past narrow windows that gave her glimpses of the palace grounds below. It was a long way to fall if one were to –accidentally or otherwise− jump out one of them.

The solar was bathed with mellow yellow sunlight. A pretty red-headed girl sat with her head bowed over a piece of beautifully intricate embroidery, the likes of which were never seen in the modern world save for in really really expensive collections of designer clothes at haute couture shows. An old woman sat beside her with the mending, her hair swathed in cloth like a nun. That, she supposed, was the septa. Jon had described her in rather unflattering terms. In one corner, stabbing the fabric but not really making any progress, was a smaller dark haired girl. Elena hid a smile. Arya was exactly as Jon had described her; a skinny sparrow with a sharp beak.

Sansa looked up and smiled when she saw Damon. "Ser Damon, what a surprise to see you here," she said as she glanced at him from beneath long eyelashes. How old was she? Thirteen? Fourteen? Well, all right, with his looks, Damon _would_ make any teenaged girl swoon.

"A good surprise, I hope," said Damon. "I thought I would bring your new handmaiden to meet you."

"A handmaiden?" said Arya.

"Indeed, my lady, by your father's orders," said Damon. "Allow me to present Elena Gilbert. She'll be your companion from now on."

"Elena, like _your_ Elena?" blurted out the younger girl. Even the septa stared.

Damon's eyes darkened, but his smile never slipped out of place. "No," he said. "She's just Elena. Not mine or _anyone's_ Elena."

He bowed and slipped past Elena through the door. As he brushed her shoulder, he leaned down ever so slightly and whispered.

"I won't stop fighting for you."

* * *

Arya glanced at their new maid while pretending to work on her embroidery. The patch of stitching grew smaller every time she looked, for she seemed to be unpicking more stitches than she was making them. At this rate, she would be left with nothing but a piece of blank linen with as many holes as Joffrey would have when she was finished with him. In her dreams, anyway. Oh, if only Sansa would do it. She could; she was _always_ spending time with him and his mother these days, which sounded like more fun than sitting here with Septa Mordane bending over embroidery. At least she wasn't completely alone anymore, and she was no longer the worst at needlework.

Elena's brow was furrowed in concentration as she tried to get her stitches just right, and stabbing her finger more often than Arya did. But she looked so beautiful while she did it. No wonder Damon liked her. For once, there was someone prettier than Sansa. It was about time someone showed her sister she was not the gods' gift to mortals.

Septa Mordane sighed. "No, child, your stitches must be small and close together. Oh, look at all those stains! Have you never done embroidery before?"

Elena shook her head. "It wasn't something my parents thought I'd needed to learn," she said. "I'm not a lady. Only ladies learn to embroider."

"And only ladies are taught their letters, yet you are learned," the septa pointed out.

Yes, it was a bit of a mystery. How did Elena know Damon? Without realizing it, Arya leaned forward to better examine the older girl. She had a terrible posture, but her figure was beautiful; even she understood that. Her fingers were long and fine, and her fingernails were neatly trimmed, not cracked and rough like a peasant girl's. Her hair was glossy, so obviously she had enough to eat all her life. No, she was most definitely _not_ a commoner.

The sun touched the top of the window.

"It's time for my dancing lessons," Arya announced, throwing down her needlework with glee and jumping to her feet.

"Arya, ladies do not shout," scolded the septa.

Arya rolled her eyes. "May I please be excused? It is time for my dancing lessons," she said in her best Sansa voice as she curtseyed.

The septa nodded with less disapproval, not detecting any of the dripping sarcasm. Or perhaps she hadn't put enough in.

"Lady Arya, may I accompany you?" asked Elena.

"Elena, you have yet to do one correct row of stitches," said the septa. In that moment, Arya recognized a kindred spirit. Elena didn't want to be here in the solar practising her needlework either!

"She must come with me," she said. "Septa Mordane, she's my maid."

"Companion," the septa corrected her.

"How can she be my companion if she isn't _accompanying_ me?" There. No one could deny that logic.

"I promise I will come back and complete the stitches," said Elena. Perhaps it was those large pretty eyes. Or maybe the septa wasn't as cruel as Arya had thought. Although, whenever Sansa asked for something, regardless of how unreasonable it was, she always got it. Maybe it was the 'lady' effect. Damn, she needed to learn that.

"All right," said Septa Mordane. "But you will return before dinner, the both of you."

Arya grabbed Elena's hand as they ran from the room. It wasn't until they were half way down the corridor that they stopped, breathless, and started giggling with no good reason at all.

"Will you keep a secret?" asked Arya.

"Of course," said Elena. "As long as it's not a life or death secret, in which case I will have a responsibility to tell your father, my lady."

"He knows it," said Arya. "Syrio's not really my dancing master. He teaches me swordplay. Jon gave me a sword and my father said I should learn how to use it if I'm to keep it." She paused. "Did you know Jon on the Wall?" she asked.

Elena had such a pretty smile; it wasn't false at all. Sansa had never given anyone an unfalse smile before, except for Damon. Damon was special. It made her want to throw up her lunch.

"I did, my lady," said Elena. "We're friends. He taught me swordplay."

What? Jon _taught_ Elena swordplay? Why didn't Jon ever teach _her_ swordplay? It wasn't fair! Then again, she could hardly be angry at Elena for it. She was so nice.

"Then you really must practise with me." Her father couldn't have picked a better maid than if he'd actually deliberately tried. But then, she'd heard Robb had recommended her. Clever Robb.

Syrio was waiting and pacing in the room. At that rate, the grooves on the stones would be all worn away. He raised an eyebrow when he saw Elena behind Arya. "Who is your friend, child?" he asked.

"This is our new maid Elena," said Arya. "She fights too."

"All fight when their lives depend on it," said Syrio. He suddenly tossed Elena a sword. Arya couldn't help but be impressed as the older girl caught it the first time. She hadn't been able to do that.

"You have good reflexes, Elena," said Syrio. He said her name in a pronounced way, placing an emphasis on the first syllable so it sounded like 'Eee-lena'.

Syrio tossed Arya the other practise sword. She could catch it now as easily as Elena had caught hers. "Now," said the Braavosi. "Let's see how well you two dance."

* * *

**The Wall**

_Dear Jon, _

_I hope you're well, and that this letter finds you safely. Your father and brother have been very accommodating and kind and I cannot repay them enough. I have entered Lord Stark's service as Lady Sansa and Lady Arya's 'companion', which is really a better word for a maid. I know you're laughing. Stop laughing. All right, maybe you can laugh a little bit. But it's really not that funny because I can't embroider, my sewing is crooked, I keep getting bloodstains on my work, and the only dance I know is the one you taught me. I try to practise on my own when there's no one around, but it's not the same. _

_You know what I am acing? Swordplay. Lord Stark hired a sword master for Lady Arya, and I accompany her to her lessons when I can. Sometimes Syrio (that's his name, Syrio Forel) lets me practise with Lady Arya so she can learn to deal with someone with a different style. He says I have excellent footwork. I tell him the credit's mostly yours. Just mostly, mind. One does not have the footwork I do without some natural talent._

(An odd round winking face with an impossibly wide smile and no nose had been drawn here. Jon remembered it was called an 'emoticon'. Elena had told him all about those.)

_King's Landing cannot be more different from Castle Black. It's hard to describe; you have to see it to really understand. There are people everywhere, which makes things difficult and easy at once. We're never lacking onions, for one, nor carrots or any other vegetable. But sometimes it's so loud you can't hear yourself think. I like going to the market to explore, though. You know what I found the other day? I didn't know what they were at first, but Jory Cassel started laughing uncontrollably when the nice man selling them asked me if I wanted to buy some. _

_Bulls' testicles. Yes, they eat bulls' balls in King's Landing. And it's not bullshit. _

_Anyway, Lady Sansa is asking for me, and I should really go. Say hello to Sam, Grenn, Pyp, and Benjen for me, and give Maester Aemon my love and regards. _

_Yours, _

_Elena_

_P.S. Damon sends his regards. _**It's actually Ser Damon now. Greetings, Frosty. I trust you are protecting us all from the zombie apocalypse and that your brains haven't been eaten yet? **

(Jon laughed. Of _course_ Damon would appropriate the pen. He'd written to the Wall just once before, and he'd called Jon 'Frosty the Snowman' before explaining Frosty was a snow sculpture that moved and played with children until he melted. Jon didn't really like the sound of that because he didn't melt, and he was not a snow sculpture! Just a Snow. And what was a 'zom-bee' and what was an 'ay-poke–' Never mind. He gave up. He couldn't even read the word, much less say it. They probably weren't words.)

_P.P.S. Sorry about that. Damon's gone now. He's got work to do, he says. I'm not sure what work he could possibly have. Lady Arya says he stands around doing a whole lot of nothing. By the way, P.S. stands for post script which is a note you put after you've signed a letter, just in case you thought it was some secret code, and P.P.S. stands for post post script which is the note you put after the post script. Okay, I really have to go now. One does not make Lady Sansa wait, but I'm sure you know that. _

The necklace winked in the moonlight shining through the cracks in the shutters. His breath misted on its silver surface as he dangled the locket before him, just watching it swing and thinking. Elena's letter had arrived earlier that day. He must have read it a thousand times, for he could remember it word for word. How he had brushed his fingers over that familiar round tidy script and the ink blots, pretending it was her voice that was saying these words to him and trying to imagine her in her new King's Landing clothes, looking like the lady she was as she bent over the piece of parchment. She still hadn't mastered using a quill yet, judging by the number of blots and smears.

When he closed his eyes, he saw her again; Elena in the snow holding her arms out like wings and saying she was flying, Elena stepping on his toes whenever they danced while torchlight flickered in her eyes, Elena's lips on his cheek when she had kissed him goodbye.

Elena asking him why he wanted to be in the Night's Watch.

He still couldn't form an answer that would satisfy both of them. Everything he could think of seemed either false or forced, whereas it hadn't before. What had changed? He knew exactly what.

The necklace continued to swing in its lazy arc. He was watching it, but not really watching it. His mind was full of questions and doubts and they swam around and around, screaming in the silence of the darkness.

The locket was yanked from his hand. Jon leapt from the narrow cot. "Give it back, Pyp," he just about snarled. Ghost, at the foot of the bed, _did _snarl.

"You've been flashing this thing in my eyes for the past two hours," said Pyp. "Some people are trying to sleep here, Jon. What's this anyway?"

"What are you doing up?" whispered a sleepy Sam on the cot at the right side of Jon's. "It's not dawn yet."

"Go back to sleep, Sam," said Jon. "Pypar, give it back!"

"It's pretty plain. I can't imagine it's worth stealing," said the thief as he turned it over in his hands, and then his eyes widened as he recognized it. "Seven hells! It's Elena's necklace!"

"Now I can't go back to sleep," said Sam. He tried to swing his legs over the side of the cot. It took a few tries before he managed to get disentangled from his blanket and rolled off the side, miraculously landing on his feet. "Elena gave you her necklace?"

"What's that noise?" said Grenn with a groan. "I don't know about you, but it's still dark outside."

"Elena gave Jon her necklace!" whispered Pyp and he dashed over to show Grenn before Jon could successfully reclaim his token.

"Shut up!" said Rast from the other end of the room.

"You shut up," the four of them said in unison, but they tried to keep their voices as low as possible after this, not wishing to wake the rest of Castle Black. Instead, they crowded around in a huddle. Jon finally managed to get the necklace back and put it back on. The locket nestled coldly against his heart before his body heat warmed it.

"She loves you," said Sam.

"She's with my friend Damon Salvatore," said Jon.

"The cocky sell-sword who became a cocky knight because he was cocky in front of the king? _That_ Damon Salvatore?" asked Grenn.

"Yes, _that_ Damon Salvatore," said Jon. Damon _would_ make himself known everywhere, including the Wall where they always got the news last. He didn't know why he had chosen the raven as his sigil, although perhaps there was sense behind it. The raven was an animal associated with the dead after all. And his words, 'Tender is the night'? There was nothing tender about vampires and the other creatures that haunted the dark places of time. Unless, of course, said vampire happened to be Elena.

"Well," said Sam sagely. "Elena didn't give Damon her locket, did she?"

"She loves you," said Pyp. Jon looked around at his friends. Their eyes were gleaming in the darkness as they stared at him. "What are you still doing here, Jon, when there's a girl like that out there waiting for you?"

"You don't have to stay, not like us," said Grenn. "You should go to her."

"Yes, you should," said Pyp.

"I'm with them," said Sam.

"I've wanted to be a ranger since I was old enough to understand," said Jon by way of protest. It seemed like a pretty pathetic protest and not really an adequate argument. In his head, he could hear Elena's voice asking him whether it was still what he wanted.

"Men are allowed to change their minds, Jon," said Pyp.

"Well, at least they are before they take their oaths," said Sam. "Just promise you'll think about it, Jon."

* * *

**Casterly Rock**

The tension in Tywin Lannister's study was so stifling, Stefan would not have been surprised if lords started dying of asphyxiation right there and then as they stood before the patriarch of House Lannister.

Tywin slowly set down a little piece of parchment. It curled up on itself, as if afraid to let him see its words again, so much had they angered him. His face was schooled, and there was almost no difference to his heart rate, but Stefan could tell the difference from his slightly heavier breathing as his body took in more oxygen to prepare for a fight or flight response. With Tywin Lannister, it was always a fight response. The lion did not run from anyone.

"It seems like the wolf has bitten off more than he can chew," he said.

"Bitten off what, my lord?" asked one of the bannermen.

"A stunted lion, but a lion nonetheless."

No one said anything. They all knew Tywin didn't think much of his youngest, but he was still a Lannister, no matter his size, and no one ever took a Lannister prisoner without all the other Lannisters trying to get him back. It was more about the family's reputation than anything else, just like his family, except his family never had armies to play with. Thank God for small favours. As Stefan had very quickly learned during his short time in Tywin's service, the Lannister reputation was almost everything. Military might and money made up for the rest.

"Salvatore," said Tywin.

Stefan stepped forward and bowed. "My lord?"

"You will raid the Riverlands," said Tywin. Him? Why him? "Clegane will be your second in command. Burn the villages, raze their crops, salt their fields. Do not fly our banners, but let the word spread. I want Eddard Stark to know about it."

Stefan glanced at the ill-tempered giant who stood on the opposite side of the room just a few feet away; the giant who had been defeated and humiliated in front of the crowds of King's Landing by one Damon Salvatore. He'd been wanting to taste Salvatore blood ever since, and one Salvatore brother was as good as another as far as he was concerned. He didn't have very discerning tastes.

"Yes, my lord," said Stefan. It was a test. He wasn't sure what Tywin was looking for, but putting a Salvatore and a Clegane together, with a knighted Clegane under the un-knighted Salvatore, was an experiment of some kind. It had to be. Otherwise, he was just asking for trouble. But then, maybe trouble was exactly what he was looking for.

Gregor pounced on Stefan as soon as they were out of earshot and pinned him to a wall. Even he was not stupid enough to disobey Tywin in front of Tywin. But outside, he was quick to assert his authority as the most vicious oaf that ever lived. Well, at least, he tried.

"Lord Tywin might have made put you in command, but I don't listen to Salvatore dogs," he growled.

"Lord Tywin put me in command and I will be in command, Clegane," said Stefan. Hadn't he learned his lesson from Damon already? What made him think that another Salvatore would be easier to take down? Although, he would probably have to do a rinse and repeat in order for him to get the message. "You will remove your hand from my person before I remove it from yours."

If only he'd had a camera to capture the look on Clegane's face as he easily wrenched his arm away from his neck, as if he were no stronger than a newborn child, and then pushed him aside. The men stared at him, some in disbelief, and some in awe. Sometimes, he didn't hate being a vampire.

Their eyes followed him. He commanded some of them to prepare brigands' clothing, and others to ready the gifts that they would leave for the Starks. This wasn't about killing as many people as possible. This was about sending a message, and unlike Damon, he didn't believe in killing the messenger.

* * *

**The Riverlands**

They burned, they screamed, and they whimpered as they were rounded up while their houses were torn down and their crops were systematically torched and the earth was salted. Stefan had to remind himself he was doing them a favour. If it had been up to Clegane, they would all be dead or maimed. He couldn't exactly save them all. His name might be Salvatore, but he was no saviour. Right now, he was in a strange land trying to make a way for himself and his friends. He had to put them first.

"Take everything you can take," he said to his men. They were more than happy to do as he asked, because they were allowed to keep whatever they wished. There was very little to take. The villagers, while not too badly off by commoner standards, had little of value. The soldiers callously tossed treasured trinkets aside and turned over tables and beds just for the sake of it.

He whipped around at the sound of terrified screams. Clegane. Again. The Mountain was pinning down a girl who could not be more than fifteen. She tried to fight him. He struck her. She continued to fight as he tore off her clothes. He made to hit her again, but his hand never made it down.

Stefan bodily hauled him from the girl. "What did I say? We raid, we burn, we tear things down. No rape, and no killing unless there's resistance," he said, keeping his voice calm but loud enough so everyone could hear. It would be easier for them all if they simply gave up and surrendered. "This is in direct violation of my orders, and my orders_ are_ Lord Tywin's orders, Clegane. Do you know what the consequences are?"

"You dare to threaten me, Stefan Salvatore?!" Stefan had never actually seen anyone turn purple before in his life, and it had been a very long life.

The Mountain swung a fist the size of a war hammer at him. Stefan easily dodged. He seized the Mountain's arm, and slammed the side of his gauntleted hand down onto the unprotected inside of the elbow. Something snapped. Probably a ligament or a tendon. He didn't really care as long as something broke. The Mountain roared in pain and anger, and was quickly shut up by a backhand to the face from the vampire. He threw the giant to the ground, where he scrambled to his feet and glared at anyone who dared to come near him.

"I could end you now," said Stefan. "But I won't. Just remember a dog only has one life." He would have liked to do nothing more than rid the world of that monster, but he doubted Tywin would appreciate it.

He heard the sound of someone rushing at him before one of the villagers slammed into him and almost knocked him to the ground. He must have taken Stefan's mercy as a sign of weakness. As though he could defeat the man who had taken down the Mountain unarmed.

Stefan seized him by the throat, and before anyone could see what he was doing, he had plunged a little dagger into the base of the man's skull where the spine joined with it. The blade met with little resistance as it went in, right through to the cerebellum.

The man went stiff, and then limp. Stefan let the man's body fall to the ground, still twitching with life.

"Bury him," he said. He could not let his emotions get in the way. No, he could not. If he felt those feelings, then he would want to turn them all off. And he could _not_ turn them off right now! He needed all his senses if he were to survive and help his friends survive too.

"He's still alive, ser," said one of the men.

"I know," said Stefan. "Bury him."

There was very little resistance after that.

* * *

_The village looked very pretty from a distance. It was surrounded by greenery and wooden palisades that looked as if they had been erected more than a century ago, and a little winding dirt path went through the middle. On either side were cute little round thatched straw and stone huts with chimney holes in the centre of the roof. How very quaint. Some of the richer villagers, like the blacksmith, actually had a cottage with mud brick walls._

_The path led to the very heart of the settlement; a merry little pub which was already attracting a great many farmers tired from tilling the fields. She ducked inside without many people noticing her and sat in a shadowy corner, as she was wont to do. She ordered a bowl of thick hearty fish stew and a tankard of the only wine they served. Oh, she missed bubbly. _

_The fish was good and fresh, with white flaky meat, but she hadn't come here for the food. Well, it was part of it. Even vampires occasionally craved non-blood products. Two men who were too well dressed to be mere villagers came in, quietly discussing the recent raids in the Riverlands. They were the tallest people in the whole of the pub, and the only two blonds. _

"_Nice little village, this one," one of them was saying. "Do you think Salvatore will want raze it too?" _

"_The Mountain will want to raze it, but he can't. Stefan Salvatore is too smart for that, and he won't risk his position as Lord Tywin's newest favourite." _

_Stefan was here too? Well, well. It wasn't entirely unexpected, she supposed, now that she knew Elena and Damon were both here too. Who was next? Baby Gilbert? He wouldn't last. The Bennett witch? She might last, until they decided to burn her for being a witch. Or perhaps an original or two? She hoped it would be the nice one who liked her, although she wasn't counting on it. _

"_He's not Lord Tywin's newest favourite. The pretty one is," said the first. _

"_Salvatore _is_ pretty." He had good taste, that second man. _

"_Not in that way. The other pretty one. The blonde little lady knight. Lady Mikaelson." _

Lady_ Mikaelson? How did Rebekah manage that? She hadn't met her yet, but from what she'd heard from Elijah and from what she'd observed when she had been –ahem– keeping an eye on Stefan during the thirties, Rebekah had been a bit of a brat. Very pretty though, if one liked freckly dumb blondes. Lord Tywin Lannister couldn't be that bright if he'd made Rebekah a knight. _

"_She's not a lady," said the second man. Amen. "She's a knight. You should call her ser." _

"_She's not a ser. She's a woman. 'Ser' is an honorific that you use for a _man_." _

"_Oh shut it and drink your wine." _

"_It's not wine. It's ale." _

"_I'll 'ail' you if you don't shut up." _

_Well, if Rebekah Mikaelson was in the south, then here was just one more reason not to go there. _

* * *

Thank you to **Guest**, **tthorn**, **Heller**, and **LittleNK** for the reviews!


	16. War, Hate, and Misunderstandings

**Chapter 16: War, Hate, and Misunderstandings**

**King's Landing**

Damon's Elena. She'd been a story in Winterfell; someone to imagine and wonder about. Who was this woman who had gained Damon Salvatore's adoration? She'd seen the way Damon had looked at her. It was as if he could sustain himself on the sight of her alone. No one ever looked at Sansa that way, not even Joffrey who professed to love her.

Sansa touched the dragonfly necklace he had given her as an apology for all his past bad behaviour. It was a beautiful necklace; there was no doubt about it, and he had been behaving much better since. Why, he'd even picked her a flower while they'd been out riding two days ago, and she'd pressed it in a book beside Damon's carnation. But even so, no man had ever looked at a woman the way Damon looked at Elena.

She raised an eyebrow as Elena stabbed her finger yet again and muttered a curse. It certainly wasn't her needlework skills that had enticed Damon. But she was well-spoken, learned, and undeniably beautiful, just as Damon was undeniably handsome and most definitely not a commoner by birth. Whoever they both were, they just _had_ to be important people.

"How do you know Damon?" she asked suddenly. Septa Mordane was away on some errand or another –she didn't really care to know− and she had thought the girls would behave with Elena watching them. What she really didn't know was Elena and Arya sometimes played at sparring when they thought no one was watching. But unlike Arya, Elena had made it look graceful and feminine. Although, Damon's occasional participation might have changed Sansa's mind about swordplay and women. If he liked women who could fight, then perhaps there was some merit in a lady learning how to use a sword.

"He and his brother saved my life several times when we lived in the same town, milady," said Elena. Damon had a brother? Sansa made a note of that in her mind. She'd find out more about him later.

"And where is your town?"

"It's in the south."

Getting answers out of her was harder than sums. "What is it called?" asked Sansa.

Elena set down her embroidery and looked up. For a while, Sansa thought she would have to command her to answer, but then the older girl sighed. "Mystic Falls."

Mystic Falls. It was such a strange sounding name, and she had never heard of it. But then, Elena and Damon−

'Elena' and 'Damon' were both Targaryen names. So their families must have been close with the Targaryens at some point…

"How did you end up at the Wall, and Damon in Winterfell?"

"We were exiled," said Elena. "Someone was hunting us, and while we were running, we were separated." This had to be it! Elena was an important noblewoman on the run from someone, which was why she'd had to learn to fight, and Damon was her defender! And somewhere along the way, they'd fallen in love, and become separated…

She glanced at Arya. For once, it was not with disdain.

"Who was hunting you?" asked Arya. Her embroidery was completely forgotten. What was she trying to make? Mountains? Never mind. They crowded around Elena, determined to get more out of her than Theon had gotten out of Damon. The older girl seemed easier to cajole and she had already taken on the look of a hunted rabbit, as if she was terrified that they would find out the truth and then turn her in…

Who would be hunting her anyway? The one person who hated Targaryens and their supporters the most, of course! It was so obvious! Gods, this was so dangerous, her being in King's Landing, although Sansa would be the last to tell fat King Robert anything. But then, she couldn't put Damon and his lady in danger. She wouldn't tell _anyone_. It was all just so romantic, like something out of the stories she loved to hear and the songs the troubadours sang.

"Your family were Targaryen loyalists, weren't they?" asked Sansa.

"I…"

"They must have been, or why else would you have been hunted out of your home? You're not a peasant girl. You can read and write and fight, but you'd never had the chance to learn embroidery and the womanly arts because you were always running for your life, and Damon and his brother were your protectors!"

Arya was getting into it. Her eyes shone. "Is your name even Elena Gilbert?" she asked.

"Milady…" began Elena. She was so flustered they had to be right. She was using a false name, and she'd been at the Wall because it was the furthest anyone could ever hope to run! But then they'd sent her right back into danger.

"You don't have to worry, Elena," said Sansa. "We won't tell _anyone_, we swear. Isn't that right, Arya?"

Her sister nodded; for once, they were in agreement. An exiled, hunted lady and her brave, loyal knight; even the tales couldn't get any better than this!

And at that moment, their father came in. They sprang back. Arya knocked over the sewing basket, and Sansa couldn't locate her needle. Hopefully someone wouldn't sit on it in the future. As for Elena, she still looked as if she were in shock. But Ned noticed none of that.

"Pack your things, girls," said Ned. "We're going back to Winterfell tomorrow."

At once, the excitement that had been fluttering in Sansa's heart turned to lead. After King's Landing, home seemed so _dull_. She wanted to see more of the real city, to attend tournaments and see knights admiring her beauty. "But why, Father?" she asked.

"Please, Sansa," said her father.

"Look on the bright side, Sansa," said Arya. "You don't have to marry Princess Joffrey anymore."

"He does _not_ look like a girl, Arya. He's a fierce little lion with a golden mane, and I will be his queen one day." To be honest, losing the chance of being queen was a thousand times worse than losing Joffrey. She'd had that dream again about her wedding, and her dream-husband, who she would never ever name to anyone, had been black-haired and blue-eyed again. It had been even more exciting that way, actually. But the crown; the crown was absolutely necessary.

"Little lion?" echoed her father. His eyes widened, suddenly realizing something. Sansa would have asked him what –because she was in the mood for asking questions today− but Lord Baelish's timely arrival saved him from the Sansa inquisition.

It was only delayed. She'd discovered Elena and Damon's secret. She would discover this one too.

* * *

If only there was a way to ascertain Joffrey's paternity. Unlike home, there was no such thing as a paternity test in Westeros. He could always try to drink Joffrey to identify his blood type before trying to determine his paternity that way, but that would mean he would have to taste the crown prince_ and_ the queen _and _a whole lot of blond noblemen, namely the entire Lannister family−

_Lannister_. Surely Cersei would have better taste? Then again, she was married to Robert. Even Varys would be an improvement, and her family members were all decent-looking, with the best looking one being Jaime…

But no. That was her _twin_. There was wrong, and then there was _wrong_.

Anyway, it hardly mattered. Why did he care if there was an inbred Lannister on the throne? It was Ned who would care, and it was Ned that Damon had to worry about if he ever found out the truth. Eddard Stark was an honest and honourable man who would never let an imposter succeed his best friend, and if he denounced the little golden haired shit, the proverbial shit would hit the fan.

He wiped down the book carefully to make sure there was no pink powdery residue left to cause suspicion. Not that anyone would think to tie him with make-up. He was too pretty to need make-up. As he worked, he listened for footsteps outside his room. It was a pretty plain room with a curving wall and a window cut in the stone. He lived on one of the middle bottom levels, which made sneaking out without anyone noticing him a little easier than it would have been had he been living up near the top. The Hand and his family lived in the upper apartments. That was where all the interesting things happened.

A door slammed downstairs, followed by rapid angry footsteps. Damon quickly stuffed the book, pink powder residue mostly gone but not quite, onto his bookshelf which was cluttered up with books he'd purchased as well as piles of rubbish that he'd somehow accumulated while trying to investigate the secret –which was no longer secret. He made sure the spine was facing inwards so no one would be able to recognize it. Who hid a book on a bookshelf, right?

He stepped outside to see the whole household in an uproar. "What's going on?" he asked Jory.

"We're going home, Damon," said the squire.

"Wait, what?" But they'd only just arrived!

"Lord Stark had a disagreement with the king and he has resigned as Hand. No, Damon, I don't know what it was they disagreed about, and I didn't ask."

Well, of _course_ Jory didn't ask. Jory never asked. It was his one great flaw which he shared with just about every man under Stark employ. They blindly obeyed without ever questioning why, like sheep in wolves' clothing. Well, if Jory couldn't tell him, and Ned wouldn't tell him, then there was one man who could and possibly would, given the right incentives.

Then again, it would be hard to ask Petyr Baelish anything if Petyr Baelish was upstairs talking with Ned Stark.

"These are dangerous times, Damon. Try not to do anything stupid. Actually, just don't do anything," said Jory.

"But stupid is so much more fun!" protested Damon. However, upon seeing Jory's face, he sighed. "Fine." Stark men had no humour. He closed the door behind him. He would have to replace the book very very soon. It would stay hidden for now, but once they were gone, and the servants started cleaning up the Tower of the Hand for the next Hand, they would find it, and then they would start suspecting something.

He went upstairs to see if the ladies needed any help in packing up their things. Half of the boxes, when they had moved from Winterfell, had belonged to them. Well, Sansa mostly. She had a lot of things. Now she had even more, with all the dresses she'd bought, and all her presents.

But packing was only secondary. He wanted to be on the same level as Ned and Baelish so he could hear what they were saying, and helping the girls was as good an excuse as any.

He caught snatches of their conversation as he went up the stairs. There was a lot of mention of honour and mercy –on Ned's part− and necessity and Targaryen girls and babies –on Baelish's part. Robert wanted to kill some pregnant exiled Targaryen princess, it seemed, and Ned didn't. Well, that sounded like Ned, giving up one of the most coveted jobs in the realm because of his conscience. The one thing you could expect of an honest man was that he could always be counted upon to do something really really stupid.

And then Baelish was enticing Ned to delay his departure for one more hour to go to his brothel. Not for fun, mind. Ned didn't know how to have fun. What he did know how to do was ceaselessly chase Jon Arryn's tail. Trail, rather. It would be awfully bad if he did figure it out. But this hour might just be what Damon needed to put the book back. He could always go up under the pretence that Ned had sent him to overlook the packing up of his study. He was a knight. Hardly anyone would question him.

Ned's study was mostly empty by the time he got there. The desk had been left where it was, its wood worn smooth by generations of Hands. It would remain long after every one of them ceased to exist. The shelves had been mostly emptied. Damon made sure no one was paying him any attention, and then slipped the book back on the shelf. There. Now if anyone happened to find it there, they wouldn't suspect anything.

As he closed the door behind him, he glanced back at the Hand's study with more than just an ounce of regret. Only a few pieces of parchment on the floor indicated that Ned Stark and his household had ever been here. That, and the incriminating book which he hoped no one would notice until much _much_ later. He could have done something great here. A knighthood was the first step to nobility, and not every knight in the realm had been invited to lunch with the queen. Although, now that he knew Cersei's secret, it was probably better to stay away from her. She would kill anyone who knew to keep her precious Joffrey safe.

Well, he was immortal. There would always be other chances for him. Besides, he wasn't going to lose everything. Baelish was still an untrustworthy friend, but a friend nonetheless, and he'd made himself known to Loras Tyrell. He could do something with those two. He just wasn't sure what he would do yet. No, not a threesome. Loras wouldn't mind, but it was so not his and Baelish's thing.

He was in the middle of helping to bring the last of Sansa's coffers down the stairs –just how many dresses did that girl have, anyway?− when he heard shouts coming from the courtyard. The coffer landed with a thud as he dropped it. Something smashed inside, and too late he noticed Elena's writing on the chest saying 'Fragile'. Oops. Whatever.

The vampire raced outside and pushed aside the servants who were blocking his way. "What the fuck happened here−" he began to ask Jory, since the unconscious Ned was not going to answer. Besides, one did not say 'fuck' to a lord. But…where was Jory? He looked around for the squire. "Where the hell is Jory Cassel?" he demanded.

"Dead," said Baelish, walking in through the gate. He was as calm as he usually was, but there was something that almost seemed like worry in his eyes. "Your lord was attacked by Jaime Lannister."

Oh, _Jaime_ _Lannister_, was it? Damon had wanted to fight him for a _long_ time. Now he had the perfect chance and the perfect reason. He was a knight of House Stark. He was supposed to defend his liege, wasn't he? He made to go, but Baelish placed a hand on his chest to stop him in his short-lived path to incomplete vengeance.

"Don't," said Baelish. "Jaime Lannister is long gone by now, and if you go after him, it will only do Eddard Stark more harm. You don't want that, do you?"

Damon wasn't sure what he didn't want. He knew he wanted to fight Jaime Lannister and let him know that he wasn't the be all and end all. _No_ one hurt Damon's friends without paying, and Damon took all his friends' wellbeing very seriously for the most part, barring a few occasions when he'd had to snap their necks, because he had so few of them. Friends, that was. And he never snapped a friend's neck unless he knew for certain they had resurrection rings or were vampires.

"And however flawed his plan, don't you think he would have had a reason? Best to keep watch and see what happens," said Baelish.

He left Damon standing in the courtyard supporting –or rather, carrying− the unconscious Ned Stark, taking his city guard with him. Damon stared at the man's retreating back, wondering once again what sort of world and mess he'd gotten himself into, and whether or not he should try and fix it.

Or whether he _could_ fix it.

He took Ned to his chambers himself. The man was not a giant, but he wasn't light either, and it was simply easier for Damon to do it rather than passing him onto the servants. Plus, there was 'special tea' to brew, and he didn't actually trust very many of the servants save for the ones they'd brought from Winterfell. As time had passed, he'd uncovered more spies, not that he could have killed any of them, because that would have raised suspicions.

The smell of blood –Starks had _good_ blood− was making him a little bit hungry again. But drinking Ned was not an option. He would have to satisfy himself with one of Cersei's spies – he was allowed to make an exception just the once, wasn't he? Consider it revenge of the lowest order. He would work up the scale eventually. Salvatores always paid their debts too. Except for when they owed Klaus, but he was an exceptional case. And she-who-must-not-be-named.

A running Elena almost crashed into him, and if they hadn't had quick enough to react, all three of them would have gone down in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, doing the injured Ned no favours. "Oh my God, what happened?" she said.

"Jaime Lannister happened," said Damon grimly. "You all ready to go? We're leaving as soon as he's patched up. Jory's dead. It looks like I'm in charge now."

"Oh God, how?"

"I'm not God, but I can tell you it most likely had something to do with Lady Stark taking Tyrion Lannister, and Jaime likes his brother as much as I like mine, it seems. Yes, I have omniscience although I'm not as omnipotent as I would like to be. It's best you don't get involved in all these political shenanigans, Elena. Go and get Arya and Sansa ready."

"Arya's missing," said Elena. "I need to find her."

"How about you take care of Lord Stark, and I will go look for our wayward Joan of Arc. You take care of him yourself. I don't trust anyone else. Not at a time like this."

Before Elena could come up with any better suggestions –not that she could, because it was best for everyone if no one realized he was also capable of healing people, as that would raise too many questions− or ask any more questions, he passed Ned Stark to her and disappeared around the corner before she could say anything.

* * *

**The Fever**

_The fire crackled and gave off a lot of smoke. Cooking had never been her forte. The fish's skin blackened and turned into charcoal before she could take it off the spit. It was a pathetic excuse for a trout, all thin and bony. It had not even had more than a mouthful of blood that tasted like mud, and she was still so hungry after drinking it that she now had to eat its charred mortal remains. She felt more like Renfield than Dracula right now. _

_She'd never hit such a low point since the first days of her exile when she'd sat by a road and cried. She tried to think of all the possibilities that awaited her in the north. Perhaps Prince Charming was waiting for her there. _

_She was hungry enough to eat Prince Charming. _

_Her horse cropped grass nearby. She needed it, so she didn't eat it. Did she leave Edmure a thank you note? Perhaps she ought to send a box of chocolates later. But they didn't have chocolates in Westeros. They were so deprived. _

_Hoof beats approached. She looked up and abandoned the charcoal stick that had once been a wriggling fish so juicy sweet. _

_The two men approached her. Their horses were sweaty from a hard ride. "Where is Barrowton?" asked one of them without so much as a greeting. To quote the most irritating organism in the history of the Galactic Empire, how rude! _

_She considered not answering and simply taking what she wanted, but no. She was bored –it was so easy to get bored in Westeros – and she wanted to play. _

_She pointed out a difficult and rough 'road' through the forest, knowing fully well it did not lead to Barrowton. She had, after all, obtained a map. They did not even bother questioning her before riding into the sunset. How romantic. _

_She ate what meat there was on the fish and then settled in to wait. The men returned when the moonlight was casting silvery grey shadows on the mottled carpet of fallen leaves and withered grass. "You lied to us, bitch!" snarled one of the –was that a man or a grumpkin? _

_He was on foot, with twigs in his hair and mud all over him. She had to use all her self-restraint to stop herself from giggling. As it were, she only snorted. _

"_Oh, you think it's funny, do you?" asked the second grumpkin. "We are going to make you sing." _

"_I don't think it's funny," she said. "I think it's _hilarious_ that you think I have anything to be afraid of." She flexed her fingers. "I mean, look at me." With that, she snapped his companion's neck. She would have ripped his throat out, but that was a wonton waste of blood. _

_The remaining grumpkin tried to run, but she blocked his path wherever he turned. _

"_Please, have mercy!" he begged. The smell of hot ammonia hit her. _Really_? _

"_Well, since you said please," she said. He looked hopeful before she snapped his neck too. _

_Dinner was served._

* * *

Stefan found them drained of blood by the roadside, the horror still in their dead glassy eyes and their necks at odd angles. Both of them had two puncture wounds on their necks.

He had the men bury them and spoke sharp words to anyone who dared to mention anything to do with Dracula or vampires.

Who had done it? Damon? But Damon was in King's Landing, and Rebekah and Caroline were both with Lord Tywin.

Then who was it?

Could it be Klaus?

* * *

**Vaes Dothrak**

She heard of his deeds wherever she went. They called him the White Death from the West. He feared nothing. The tribes and free cities trembled at his name and rogues of every kind rallied to his banner because they knew they would reap the spoils of his victories.

"_He is a brigand who has gathered a band of followers_," Drogo said dismissively in that strangely rough yet musical language of his. "_He is nothing_."

Daenerys didn't tell him she still kept the sketch he had drawn of her on her wedding day; of her in her flowing dress and with such wistful eyes. Looking at the picture made her feel as if he understood her even though they had only exchanged a few words. Niklaus Mikaelson. What an odd name. The truth was, she had never stopped wondering about him. He had ridden off right after her wedding, and she had never seen him since, but they kept whispering his name. All she could remember was the wicked smile and the soothing velvety tones of his voice. There was something about a man who could create such beauty and such terrible destruction with the same pair of hands.

She mentioned nothing of Niklaus to Drogo. Her husband was kind and loving and she had come to care for him, but there was always something standing between them like a glass barrier. It had nothing to do with language, for she was quickly learning the Dothraki tongue. It had more to do with something on a deeper level. They did not have much in common.

For Drogo, life was about conquests and glory and protecting his people and his family. There was little else beyond that. He had no curiosity for what lay beyond the horizons he knew, no hunger to see the great cities in the west, and no desire to live in anything other than a tent of skins. As far as he was concerned, Vaes Dothrak was the greatest city that ever existed. The rest of them were merely pens for sheep and goats for the khalasar to raid whenever they needed supplies or slaves. As for music and art, there was nothing better than the battle cries of warriors and their blood painting the sand.

But the man who had given her that drawing; he understood what it was like to see beyond what his eyes beheld. When Daenerys thought of him, she saw opportunity and freedom. Niklaus Mikaelson would not be constrained by expectations. He was unpredictable, unfathomable. That little bit of mystery was what drew her to him.

With her child quickening in her womb, the khalasar settled in at Vaes Dothrak, giving gifts of slaves and horses and expecting gifts in return.

"Is that not exactly the same as trading?" Daenerys asked Jorah as they strolled through the markets, looking at everything they had to offer. It was, after all, 'free', so long as you had gifts to give.

"It's not called trading," said Jorah wryly.

Chickens clucked, ducks quacked, and sheep chewed straw slowly in their pens, watching Daenerys and her retinue with sleepy eyes.

She saw him from a distance. His tall lean figure in that billowing white linen shirt was unmistakeable, and beneath his arm, he carried rolls of parchment and a box of brushes and paints. When he saw her, he swept a low courtly bow, his eyes gleaming with wickedness. "Khaleesi," he said.

"Lord Niklaus," she said. "We meet again."

"Please, call me Klaus, for I am no lord," said the man.

"Niklaus, where have you been?" asked Jorah.

"Here and there, my friend," said Klaus.

"So I have heard," said Jorah. "You've made quite a name for yourself, White Death."

"The cities needed pruning. They were becoming a little overpopulated and inundated with unneeded goods."

"Is that how you see it?" asked Daenerys. "Pruning?" She had pruned her lemon trees in Pentos, but it had never been in such a violent way.

"It is the law of nature, Khaleesi. The predators keep the prey numbers steady. If the prey populations become too big, then what would they eat? It would all collapse."

"By the way you say it, it sounds as if you are doing them a favour," said Daenerys.

"I believe I am, Khaleesi," said Klaus. He looked up at the rest of her retinue, who seemed to be wondering what Daenerys was doing talking to him. "Shall we walk together, Khaleesi, since it seems the gods had intended for us to meet today?"

"I would like that," she said, "Klaus."

"I will be not be joining you, I am afraid," said Jorah.

"Why not, Ser Jorah? It is a beautiful day for a walk with friends, is it not?" asked Klaus.

"Sadly, some of us are not free men and I have duties I must attend to," said Jorah. He bowed to her. "Khaleesi, since you are in such fine company, will you give me leave to depart for a while?"

"Of course," said Daenerys. He probably had more important things to do than accompany a young girl while she looked at market stalls and talked with enigmatic painters. "Take as long as need, Ser Jorah. I am sure Klaus will keep me safe."

They passed by stalls with goods from Westeros. Klaus showed her his brushes and his paints, and she asked if he would paint her a portrait.

"It would be my greatest pleasure," he said. "An artist can hardly ask for a lovelier subject."

She felt heat rushing into her face as she blushed, delighted by his praise. Drogo, even when he was calling her the moon of his life, could not elicit such a reaction from her. What was it about Klaus and his voice? And those eyes; she loved looking at those ancient ageless eyes.

A wine merchant called out to her. She was glad for the distraction, for her thoughts became too confusing at that moment. His fragrant barrels reminded her of the wine she used to drink in Pentos. He offered her a taste of his best Dornish red, and she was about to accept when Jorah intervened. Where had _he_ come from?

"Why don't you taste it first?" Jorah said to the merchant. The merchant remained smiling, but his eyes froze.

"Oh, no," he said. "I can't. This wine is too fine for the likes of me."

Something in the back of Daenerys' mind gave her warning. "Drink it," she said to him.

"Well, if the Khaleesi commands it," said the merchant. He made to raise the cup to his lips, but then he threw it into Jorah's face, blinding him. The man began running, darting and dodging between the stalls while the Dothraki chased after him, shouting for the bystanders to stop him.

Out of nowhere, Klaus appeared in the middle of his path and seized him, lifting him up by the throat with one hand. "Where are you off to in such a hurry, mate?" he asked. The man scrabbled at Klaus' hand, but it had no effect. Klaus' fingers began to tighten and his grin widened.

"I want him alive, Klaus," said Daenerys, stopping him before he could accidentally get rid of useful evidence.

"If the Khaleesi so commands it," said Klaus. He seemed a little disappointed that he would not be able to crush the man's windpipe with just one hand, but Daenerys thought it was too quick a death. Besides, she needed to know who had sent him. She had her suspicions, but she needed confirmation.

He threw the man into the arms of the waiting Dothraki who bound him like a sheep being prepared for slaughter. The would-have-been assassin spat and swore, but his voice was hoarse from just having been strangled.

Klaus bowed to Daenerys. "Until we meet again, love," he said just loudly enough for her and her only.

Then she blinked, and he was gone.

* * *

**Review replies: **

****Guest: Thanks! We're glad you like it!

Jack: Stefan needs to be ruthless to survive here, and ultimately, he's trying to deter the rest of the villagers from resisting by killing this one rather horribly. Damon probably wouldn't worry too much as he wouldn't expect Beric Dondarrion to actually manage to catch Stefan. He'd worry about it after Stefan is captured, if he ever gets captured. And not only is Gregor going to REALLY hate Salvatores, there are MORE people he is going to really hate in the future. ;) Thank you so much for reading and reviewing!

Thanks to LittleNK, duttasubhasish04, Talia Ocean, Guest, and Jack for reviewing! And thanks to everyone else for reading!


	17. O Brother, Where Art Thou?

**Chapter 17: O Brother, Where Art Thou? **

**King's Landing**

Someone had broken off the spear, but the head still remained buried in Ned Stark's ankle. It took the maester an hour to work it out, not daring to move it too much in case he damaged the tendons or bones.

The door opened. Robert filled the doorway with his immense girth, his face grim and for one of those rare moments in his life, sober. Or relatively, anyway. "How is he?" he asked gruffly to mask his concern. While Elena could not agree with _any_ of Robert's policies –he had all of one which seemed to dictate he leave all the work to other people while he had fun− she was touched by his concern for his friend. He was loyal, at least, which was a lot more than one could say for some other kings.

"He's unconscious still, Your Grace," said the maester with a bow as Elena dipped a curtsey. She was getting better at it. Sansa had been teaching her. "His leg will mend, but he will walk with a limp for the rest of his days, I fear."

"If I ever catch that brother of yours, I will break both his legs," Robert said, and it was only then that Elena noticed he had not come alone. Cersei had come. It was the first time she had seen the queen –or the king, for that matter, but the queen was more impressive. She'd heard a lot about Cersei, of course, both from Sansa and from Damon. The former had spoken of her grace and beauty and cold eyes. The latter had warned Elena to stay away from her and out of her notice. "Think of her as the jealous evil bitch queen in _Snow White_, whichever version is nastier," he had said. "Don't be Snow White."

The maester gave her a prescription for a tea to brew for Lord Stark. She hurried off to find the ingredients. No one would be touching this medicine except her. Damon had said not to trust anyone, right?

She checked the ingredients, just to make sure they were all safe, and tried to remember what Maester Aemon had taught her about herbs. Milk of the poppy, better known as opium. Or maybe heroin. That was for the pain, by the way, not to make Lord Stark high. Elderflowers, in case he contracted a fever and to help the body fight off infection. It all seemed to be in order. The servants left her to it. None of them wanted to offend her. Her position as Sansa and Arya's handmaid and as Damon's…friend seemed to give her an elevated status amongst them. She made sure no one was watching, and then pricked her finger, allowing several drops to fall into the tea, stirring it until the red was dispersed throughout. If one had really keen eyes, one might notice a reddish tint. Otherwise, it was just a murky unpalatable brew.

By the time she returned with the steaming cup, the king and queen were leaving. She kept her eyes down as she curtseyed again. The maester was gone, too, leaving Ned alone and sitting up on his bed, his face drawn with pain as he played with the pin shaped like a hand pointing downwards.

"My lord?" she said.

"Shouldn't you be with Arya and Sansa?" he asked.

"Lady Arya is at her lessons with Master Forel," said Elena. She was _not_ about to tell him that his daughter was still missing and Damon was out looking for her. At least, not yet. "Septa Mordane is with Lady Sansa. I took the liberty of brewing your tea for you. Bonnie gave me the recipe."

"Bonnie Bennett did my son a great turn," said Ned. "It was her medicine that saved his life." He held his hand out for the cup and grimaced when he tasted the contents before downing it in one gulp. Then he glanced down at his bandaged leg and foot, amazed. "Robb was right to send you to King's Landing."

It was the closest thing to praise she'd ever heard him say. She turned around to leave, but today was a day for visitors, it seemed. Arya barged in, looking like she'd crawled out of a sewer somewhere. She smelled of old dust and there was a cobweb in her hair. Even Damon behind her wasn't quick enough to stop her from rushing to her father and throwing her arms around him. "They want to kill you! I heard them! They want to kill you like they killed the other Hand!" she said as she buried her face in her father's chest.

"Who?" asked Ned.

"I don't know," said Arya.

"What happened?" Ned looked at both the one who had found her and the one who was supposed to be looking after her.

"She got lost chasing a cat into the dungeons," said Damon, jumping in to save Elena before she could say anything to get herself into trouble. Not that Elena knew what to say.

"I heard two fat men talking about a war and savages and killing you and somebody trying to kill Bran," said Arya. She looked up at him with large round eyes. "You're not going to die, are you?"

"Of course not," said Ned. He didn't really sound that confident.

* * *

Burned crops, houses razed to the ground, salted earth, live burials and rotting trout; these were no ordinary brigands.

"Did they bear any standards?" asked Ned of the terrified villager whose son had been buried while alive but paralyzed. He'd seen the body, and it had made him cold. The tiny wound at the base of the man's skull had looked too small and too clean for such a horrific death. There hadn't even been that much blood.

"None, Your Grace," said the old man. Then again, he couldn't possibly be that old. His boy had been Robb's age. The villagers huddled together in the centre of the throne room, looking very out of place and very frightened of all the finery and the armed guards. Tears made pale tracks on their dirty faces. All of them had lost something, or someone, to the so-called bandits.

"This is the Hand of the King you are addressing, not the King," said Beric Dondarrion, the young Lord of Blackhaven who had been in King's Landing for the tournament.

The already frightened man shrank back further, but his son's terrifying death must have given him more courage than anyone could have expected. He continued on. "There was a man, taller than any other by a head. He wielded a big sword that was as tall as a man and that could cleave a tree in half."

Murmurs rippled through the throne room. They all recognized the Mountain's description when they heard it.

"He tried to take Ham's daughter by force, but the other one, the one who killed my son, he stopped him. The big one called him Stefan Salvatore."

All around the court, men exchanged glances with one another. Ned tightened his grip on the head of his cane. _Salvatore_. It was not a common name. In fact, until Damon turned up on the doorstep of Winterfell, he had never heard it before. His bannerman had a lot of explaining to do.

"Lord Beric Dondarrion," he said. Beric stepped forward. He was not a particularly handsome man, but he had honest eyes and a keen, brave heart. It would take a brave heart to confront the Mountain. It briefly occurred to him that the only men he had seen who could manage the Mountain on the battlefield or the tilting grounds were Jaime Lannister and Damon, but with another Salvatore out there, he didn't trust Damon even though he might be one of the few men left to trust in King's Landing. "I charge you, ser, with bringing the false knight Gregor Clegane and his commander to justice."

"My lord," said Pycelle. "Would that be wise?"

Ned ignored him. "And summon Tywin Lannister. He is to come to King's Landing to answer for the crimes of his bannermen. He will arrive in two weeks or be named an enemy of the Crown." All the courtiers murmured to one another, but they quietened when he gave them a look.

"A bold move, my lord," said Baelish. He leaned closer as if he had something for Ned's ears alone. "But bold is not always clever."

"I am acting in the name of the King while King Robert is absent," said Ned.

The gauntlet had been thrown down. The men bowed and left to do his bidding.

Ned suddenly felt a shiver go through him. Winter was coming. He shook it off. He had faced winters and wars before. He could face Tywin Lannister with the authority of the king behind him. It was time to break the lion's hold on the throne. For now, they might as well be sitting on it.

He returned to the Hand's Tower. "Jory, summon Damon Salvatore," he said to his squire, but then he remembered; Jory Cassel was dead. He didn't even have a squire now. "Summon Damon Salvatore," he repeated to one of the guards. The man bowed. He returned to his almost empty study and looked around the stone room. Just a few days ago, he had thought he would never see it again. He frowned when he saw the heavy volume with its cracked leather cover and faded gold lettering on the spine. The book. Had it been there all along on his _bookshelf_? He picked it up and flicked through it, brushing his fingers over the pages. His brow furrowed further when he noticed something powdery on them and his fingers came away tinted with a little bit of pink. Had someone else been reading it? Was that why he hadn't found it? Who? He rubbed the powder between his fingers. A woman, maybe? Sansa?

_Cersei_?

* * *

When the guard told him Ned wanted to see him, Damon thought nothing of it. It was only natural, with him being the one in charge of protecting Ned's household now that Jory was gone. He found Ned looking at the book again.

"You wanted to see me, my lord?" he asked. His eyes flicked to the book briefly. Uh oh. Ned was on the Lannister page. Well, at least it wasn't the Baratheon page.

"Is there something you would like to tell me, Damon?" asked Ned. His voice was cold and calm. What now? Did he find out about the vampire thing? Did someone tell him about his friendly banter with Sansa? Didn't he know it was just friendly banter with a little girl who read far too much into it?

Or was it about the book? No. It couldn't. He'd been careful, hadn't he?

"Is there something I _should_ tell you, my lord?" he asked. He wasn't going to give anything up without some hint of what it was that Ned knew. No point in telling him what he didn't know. Sometimes to keep people in the dark was to keep everyone safe. Because if Ned found out he'd been engaged in a bit of G-rated flirting with Sansa, he'd be in a spot of trouble even if he meant nothing by it.

"I was hoping you might tell me," said Ned. He pulled out a crumpled piece of parchment and pushed it across the desk towards Damon. It was a report about raids across the Riverlands. The body count wasn't high, but someone had been paralyzed by a knife to the brain and then buried alive. There was a mention of a particularly giant brigand who seemed more interested in killing things than taking them. Could Gregor Clegane be _any_ more obvious?

"Interesting," said Damon. "But it wasn't me."

"Does the name Stefan Salvatore mean anything to you?"

He froze. _Stefan_ was here too? He glanced down at the parchment again. Surely… "He's my brother," said Damon, passing the parchment back to Ned. "We were separated when we were exiled."

"He's serving the Lannisters," said Ned.

Stefan had always had exceptionally bad judgement. No, it wasn't projection.

"Look, my lord, I don't exactly keep a track of everything my brother does," said Damon. "The thing is, I'm not the demon or angel perched on his shoulders telling him what to do. Stefan does whatever Stefan pleases and I'm usually the last to hear about it."

"How can I trust that you don't share his allegiances?"

"How can you trust that he doesn't share _my_ allegiances?" He sighed. Ned was still suspicious, and he couldn't exactly allay that fear without explaining the whole teleportation thing, and _that_ would open a whole new can of worms. "The truth is, this is the first I've heard of Stefan since we were separated."

Ned sighed and tapped the book. His fingers were on Jaime's name. "I've trusted you this far, Salvatore," he said. "Don't betray that trust."

"I don't say this to just everybody –in fact, I've never said it to anyone except Elena− but you can trust me."

He paused. Did he actually _mean_ that? Since when did he turn into chivalrous white knight Ser Damon? It was these Starks. What were they doing to him? Whatever it was, it needed to stop. Like, right now. Or yesterday.

* * *

**Blackwater Rush Crossing**

It didn't really make a lot of sense to Caroline at first. Why was Tywin sending Stefan and the 'Mountain Who Rides' –he wasn't _that_ big− to raid villages in the Riverlands? All right, maybe she'd been a bit upset that Stefan was going to leave her all alone in a strange military fortress with only Rebekah and squinty, dry, grumpy Maester Ayjax for company.

Ayjax had made her deliver messages and file books all day long. She hadn't even gotten time to read the books, not that she'd find them all that interesting, judging by the titles they had. Westeros had not yet developed novels. It was all epic poetry or brief poetry or military treatises or medical treatises or some history of some conquest; all dry stuff. But reading that would probably have been better than learning a new confusing book-filing system that didn't make as much sense to Caroline as Tywin's decision to send Stefan and Clegane to raid Riverlands villages.

For a while, she had thought she would at least get toned arms out of all that heavy lifting. Then she had become depressed again as she had remembered she was a vampire. Her arms were going to be as toned as they had been when she'd been turned, and the heavy lifting wasn't going to help at all.

But then Tywin marched out with his army, and for some reason, Caroline was commanded to move out with them. She supposed Maester Ayjax was too old to ride with the armed forces anymore, and since Tywin needed clerks, she was as good as any. As good as any, meaning he had several other clerks he could have taken, but he'd chosen to take her instead. Or so Daemon had said.

"It's an opportunity hundreds would kill to have, Caroline," he said. "Usually Lord Tywin doesn't even remember his clerks' names. Then again, you are the prettiest clerk he's ever had."

"I hope that's got nothing to do with it," said Caroline as she finished filling in her chart documenting how many spears the Lannister army had. Which was a lot. She'd counted two hundred thousand after making the men tie them up in bundles of twenty and then stacking them in tens. The parchment was covered in blots –could someone please invent a proper pen?− from her inadequate quill skills.

"Why not?" asked Jorge. Oh, sweet Jorge. He was really just a little boy in a man's armour. They shouldn't even really let him play with a sword. It wasn't that he didn't know how to use it; he simply didn't know when to use it. After his initial eagerness for killing Caroline and her friends, he'd taken to following her around like a puppy. If she had an errand that needed running, Jorge would always be more than happy to help. She just didn't trust him to get it right. Daemon, on the other hand, proved to be a great source of sarcastic commentary, and she had learned to go to him if she had questions about Westeros and Lannisters in general.

The two brothers could not be more different, but Daemon loved Jorge and had always protected him, ever since they had lost both their parents as children. Their father, Lord Gerion Lannister, had been Lord Tywin's youngest and most reckless brother. He had died in a hunting accident, while their mother had died shortly after Jorge had been born. The younger boy barely remembered his mother and father. As far as he could remember, he had always been raised by his uncle Lord Kevan.

"Because I want to be picked for my skills, not my face," said Caroline.

Jorge remained quiet as he absorbed the information and tried to understand it.

"Why do you think it is that Lord Tywin sent Stefan and Gregor Clegane to raid the Tullys?" Caroline asked Daemon. "I mean, it's not as if he needs the money and I doubt the villagers have much to offer him anyway. Although…I suppose Catelyn Tully-Stark did take Lord Tyrion…"

His smile curved ever upward.

Her eyes widened. "It's a message!" she exclaimed. "Either he wants to threaten the Tullys into making Catelyn give Lord Tyrion back… But why dress up as brigands? Why not just go and demand him? He's Tywin Lannister. One word from him and half of Westeros trembles."

"I should think not," said Daemon. "He's Lord Tywin Lannister, actually, but not a force of nature."

"I don't mean literally," said Caroline, whacking him on the arm and forgetting that he, too, was a Lannister and a lord. He didn't seem to mind. "Well, maybe I do mean literally. There's no one in the world that's not afraid of him." She considered it. Stefan had mentioned leaving trout behind, and trout was the sigil of House Tully. Besides, everyone recognized Gregor Clegane. He was a bit hard to miss.

"The raids are bait for bigger fish," she said, half to Daemon and half to herself. "But who's he baiting?"

"A good question."

That was _not_ Daemon or Jorge. All three of them whipped around in alarm. Caroline hurriedly dipped a bad curtsey –and almost lost her footing− as Daemon and Jorge both bowed.

"Lord Tywin," said Daemon.

Tywin ignored him. "Follow me, Caroline Forbes," he said. Even though she was vampire, and therefore the predator at the top of the food chain, Tywin Lannister somehow had a way of making her feel like a silly little girl who'd been sent to the principal's office. She probably should be even more scared of him, but her self-preservation skills had never been all that sharp.

Okay, now she was literally going to the principal's office, except worse. Daemon's jaw was tense, and Jorge was simply so terrified and awestruck he'd let his mouth drop open as he stared at Tywin's retreating back. It was probably a good thing Tywin didn't see him. Or maybe he did, and simply chose to ignore him. No one knew what the patriarch had said to the boy that day after he'd mistakenly thought he'd told Daemon to take Caroline, Rebekah, and Stefan to the dungeons, and Jorge never talked about it, not even to his brother whom he'd worshipped ever since he'd been old enough to understand.

Tywin's command tent was the largest tent in the camp. It housed a long table upon which there should always be a decanter of wine. The decanter was missing today. She stood awkwardly and looked down at the trampled grass while Tywin sat down behind his desk and began to look at reports. For a long while, he ignored her, as if he'd forgotten she was there, but she knew better. He was trying to unnerve her. Well! Caroline Forbes would not be intimidated by such an old trick!

At last, he spoke. "Do you know what happens to those who know too much, and then say it?" he asked.

"Loose lips sink ships?" said Caroline.

"Indeed. A very apt phrase for it, although there are no ships at present," he said.

"So who's the bait for?" asked Caroline. "My lord." She almost forgot that again.

"Who is Catelyn Stark's husband?"

Why was he asking her all these questions? It almost felt as if he were teaching her, but Tywin Lannister didn't teach random people. He definitely didn't teach clerks.

"Lord Eddard of House Stark, the Hand of the King," she recited. She had to thank Daemon for his lessons after this. "And since Stefan and Clegane are illegally terrorizing villagers, as Hand of the King, he has to do something about it, like ride out and arrest them. But what next?"

"Do you really think I would send my men out to be arrested, as you put it?"

"You want him to ride out…so you can arrest _him_ and then make his wife release Lord Tyrion. Is that it, my lord?"

Tywin did not reply. Instead, he indicated the silver tray on the table where his decanter of wine usually stood. "I need a new cupbearer," he said. "The other was incompetent. You will do."

* * *

**Riverrun**

He had sent out scouts to look for her, but Edmure received no news of the fascinating lady bard. No one seemed to know who she was or where she was. He sighed as he toyed with his empty cup in the silent hall. The land was no longer safe, what with all those brigands killing indiscriminately and terrorizing innocent people, and he worried for her. He had offered to ride out and deal with the scoundrels personally, but both his father and his uncle Blackfish had objected.

So what if he didn't have a plan right now? He'd come up with one sooner or later. Sooner, rather than later. If he had been allowed to ride out, he would have been in a better position to look for her. He couldn't forget her beautiful dark eyes and long flowing hair, so curly and wild. He longed to touch it.

"Have we heard back from Ned Stark yet?" asked his uncle as he strode into the hall.

"No, but Petyr Baelish sent word. Very pretty ones too."

"Did they have any substance or are they like your favourite honey cakes, all air and no bite?" asked Blackfish as he stuffed three of the said honey cakes into his mouth, chewed a couple of times –not nearly long enough to savour the taste– and swallowed them in one gulp.

"He thinks I would not like being in the Small Council," said Edmure. "He has offered us other things." In fact, Edmure was almost at the point of writing to Petyr and asking if he knew of a certain lady bard. Petyr knew everything.

"Littlefinger and his games. I should have known," said Blackfish. "Well, if we keep bombarding him, I'm sure he'll relent eventually."

Edmure hoped not. Petyr was probably right about how he would not enjoy being a Small Council member.

* * *

**Blackwater Rush Crossing**

A Lannister always paid his debts. No one took a Lannister prisoner and got away with it. No one, not even if said Lannister was a half-sized Lannister.

Although attacking Ned Stark in the streets of King's Landing and then stabbing him in the ankle probably wasn't the best way to get his brother back, in hindsight.

Golden lions on red banners reared in the wind. Jaime dismounted. He had been wearing the white of the Kingsguard for so long that donning the red and gold of his house felt a little alien to him.

Donning the red and gold meant he was in his father's domain again.

Jaime Lannister feared nothing and no one, except Tywin Lannister. He could already hear his father's cold tones inside his head, berating him for his idiocy, as if he didn't already know how hare-brained his scheme had been.

But _someone_ needed to take care of Tyrion, and if not Jaime, then who?

He decided not to go and see his father just yet. He was holding court with a few of his uncles and some trusted bannermen. Jaime could wait. In fact, if he could put off this meeting forever, he would. At least until Tywin had forgotten his attack on Ned Stark. Sometimes, he wished his father could grow as senile as Pycelle pretended to be. It would make life a whole lot easier for everyone. And who knew? Perhaps it might be easier to love a senile Tywin than one who was in full control of his mental faculties. Although, un-senile Tywin would tell him that love was an unforgiveable crime that must be rooted out of the hearts of men at all cost. Yes, he adored his father too.

The Lannister camp was bordered by a little river, hidden from view by some gnarled trees from which hung tattered curtains of moss like the skeleton of a forgotten hall. He wandered to the river, letting his feet lead him while he thought of how he could explain himself to his father in a manner that would incur the least amount of wrath. Perhaps he should be grateful that he was himself rather than Tyrion or Cersei. At least his father actually liked him as much as Tywin was capable of liking anyone. All of his father's children disappointed him in one way or another.

He stopped. Well, well, what had he here?

Her back was to him; a beautiful pale contoured back with dimples just above the pert buttocks. Blonde tendrils of hair, darkened by water, clung to her damp skin on which sparkled beads of moisture. The dappled sunlight on her made her seem as if she were glowing from within.

She turned her head to the side when she registered his presence. Her profile was as beautiful as her back. "Did your mother never teach you it is rude to spy on a lady while she's bathing?" she asked.

"My mother is dead," said Jaime. "Did your mother never tell you real ladies do not bathe in the open?"

"My mother is also dead," said the girl. She turned around to face him, not at all shy or afraid about being naked in front of a strange armoured man bearing a sword. Yes, she was a type of rarely seen beauty with even rarer audacity. Or foolhardiness. Jaime hadn't decided which it was yet. Was she one of the camp followers? Hmm…he thought not. She was too well-spoken. "Since you're here, you might as well make yourself useful and pass me my towel." She jerked her chin in the direction of the towel hanging, neatly folded, on one of the lower branches. He tossed it to her, half hoping it would fall into the water so she would scream at him in fury and have to run back to wherever she came from naked and wet, but she snatched it deftly out of the air and proceeded to dry her hair as she waded to the shore. Her _hair_. She didn't even bother wrapping the towel around herself.

She stepped onto the shore and picked up the pile of clothes lying folded beneath a tree as if he weren't still watching her naked form.

"What is your name?" he asked.

She smiled mischievously, as if she knew more than he did. Of _course_ she did. At least, she would know who he was. He was Jaime Lannister. "Wouldn't you like to know?" she asked. She slipped away through the trees as he watched her go, wanting to follow her, but not allowing himself to.

* * *

**Review replies**

**Guest: **Well, not to give too much away, but Telcontar definitely agrees about the chemistry between Jon and Elena. However, as Damon said, he's not going to give Elena up without a fight. ;)

**A/N: **Guess who Jaime met?


	18. Crazy, Stupid, Love

**Chapter 18: Crazy, Stupid, Love**

**Along Blackwater Rush**

People thought being a cupbearer simply meant carrying cups around. That was what Caroline had thought. She had been so so so wrong. Being a cupbearer included fetching and delivering documents and maps, making sure Tywin got his meals on time and while they were still hot, and basically running a lot of errands. So it wasn't really that different from being Maester Ayjax's assistant, except her new boss was scarier, and she was fetching more than just books.

She carefully filled the silver decanter and put it back on the tray. The wine smelled delicious, although it was reserved solely for the likes of Lord Tywin. Not even knights got to drink it.

As an afterthought, she added another decanter of water and put together a bowl of fruit; no berries, because they tended to go off very quickly, but there were pears and apples. Tywin and his advisors could do with some snacks during their long boring dry conferences, couldn't they? Besides, if they only had wine to drink, then their brains probably wouldn't continue to function as well as they ought to during councils.

She hurried back towards the command tent. The other servants and soldiers stepped aside to let her through. Some nodded in greeting, while others looked as if they would like nothing more than to plant a shank in her back the moment it was turned. To have been handpicked by Tywin Lannister was no small thing.

She was in such a hurry that she almost crashed into an armour-plated chest, and probably would have had she not been a vampire and thus in possession of super-quick reflexes.

"Don't you ever look when you walk?" asked the man. His sandy hair was tousled from the wind, and he had the same self-satisfying smirk Damon and Klaus and their ilk had perfected and trademarked. Which wasn't to say he wasn't good looking, but she had no time for charming jerks right now.

"Sorry," she said. "I'm in a bit of a hurry."

"Sorry, _my lord_," he corrected her.

"Forgive me, my lord." She dipped a quick curtsey and tried to go, but he caught her arm.

"That is the worst curtsey I have ever seen," he said. He commanded one of the men to take her tray to the command tent. Was he trying to sabotage her?! She was the cupbearer! She wasn't supposed to have other people do her job for her! She made to protest, but he held up a finger.

"Every little girl needs to know how to curtsey properly," he said, as if he were doing her a _favour_. He was insufferable! Was he related to Daemon, by any chance?

"Now, do it again, and try to remember you're a dying swan, not a dying duck."

"Not that I'm not grateful for your instruction, my lord, but I really don't have time for this," she protested.

"You do, and you will thank me for it," he said.

Over the next eon or so, he tortured her with the right angle to bend her knees at, how to dip her head so that her neck was curved and extended in just the right way so if someone wanted to take her head off from behind, they would have the best access to her neck. At least, that was what it felt like.

"Come on," he said as she made her umpteenth curtsey. "It's not that hard. My sister mastered it when she was four."

"Well, good on your sister, my lord," she said. She was going to lose her job. No, she was going to lose her _head_, and no number of good curtseys was going to save her.

When he finally released her, she rushed back to the command tent, where she ought to have been half an hour ago. It was with a little relief that she saw the man had delivered her tray of wine, water, and fruit without mishap. She took her place in the corner, hoping the sharp-eyed patriarch would not have noticed how long she'd been gone for.

"When I appointed you my cupbearer, I did not expect you to delegate others to do your work for you," he said without looking up from the letter he was writing.

"I'm sorry, my lord," she said. "I was waylaid by the rudest knight and he made me practise curtseying to him for half an hour until he thought I was doing it correctly."

At that moment, the very same knight ducked inside the tent.

"And that's him right there!" said Caroline before she could stop herself.

The knight smirked, but otherwise ignored her. "Father," he said. Oh dear God…

"Jaime," said Tywin. He finally set down his pen and looked up. "Leave us, girl."

Caroline had never been more glad to escape.

* * *

After his nothing-short-of-miraculous escape from mad Lysa Arryn's grasp and then from the hill tribes, or rather, _with_ the hill tribes who were now his 'allies', Tyrion had expected a warmer welcome. But as such, no one seemed to have noticed that he had returned, let alone cared that he was back and without any help at all.

As he neared his father's tent, he could already hear Tywin's voice lecturing Jaime about "family" and "the Lannister name" and "reputation" and "legacy" and "power". Ah, the good old "Family is Power" speech. He and Jaime even had a name for it.

"Lions do not concern themselves with the opinions of sheep," Tywin was saying as Tyrion ducked inside the tent.

"Anyone miss me?" he asked rather unnecessarily.

"You're alive," said his father.

"Sorry to disappoint," said Tyrion. At least Jaime looked slightly glad that he was back. That was always something.

"I have come to expect disappointment," said Tywin.

Tyrion reasoned with himself that this was his father, and Casterly Rock would grow legs and move before Tywin changed.

Although he counted himself an optimist and always had a faint and fading hope that it would happen one day, when his father would actually not disapprove of something he did. It was a child's hope and something he had not yet managed to grow out of.

He motioned to Bronn, his new friend who liked him more for his money than his personality. Why exactly, Tyrion couldn't tell. After all, he had a perfectly charming personality. The mercenary, who had seemed so fearless, came inside almost shyly –Hah, Bronn as the shy wilting wallflower? Now there was an image.− followed by the chiefs of the hill tribes he had…er…well, subdued wasn't quite the right word for it even if he would have liked to use it.

"These are my friends, Father," he said. In his peripheral vision, he could see Jaime trying not to laugh. As if he had any right to laugh, since he didn't actually have any friends to speak of. One by one, he introduced them: Shagga, son of Dolf, chieftain of the Stone Crows; Timett, son of Timett, of the Burned Men; Ulf, son of Umar, of the Moon Brothers; Chella, daughter of Cheyk, of the Black Ears. With each introduction, Tywin's face became more and more expressionless and Jaime became more and more amused, possibly because he'd been saved from hearing the rest of the "Family is Power" speech, regardless of what variations their father added.

"And you are?" Tywin suddenly asked of Bronn. His father was asking direct questions? He must be even more annoyed than Tyrion had originally thought.

Bronn looked as if he were about to introduce himself, but then thought better of it. "You wouldn't know me," he said. It was a very accurate statement.

Tyrion ploughed on. There was nothing for it. He had made a deal with the hill tribes, and a Lannister always paid his debts, no matter how big or small or ridiculous they were. "I promised my friends weapons and armour in exchange for their help." Really, Jaime, could that grin get any bigger? If he continued to find this so amusing, he might just burst from holding in his laughter.

His father almost seemed dumbfounded. Of course, Tywin Lannister was _never_ dumbfounded or surprised or anything that was undignified. Then, much to everyone's surprise, but mostly Tyrion's, he waved his assent.

Tyrion escaped with his 'friends' and Jaime more quickly than he had escaped from the Eyrie. He would rather face a thousand Lysa Arryns than his father's wrath. When they were finally free, Jaime at last allowed himself a chuckle. "So, they helped you," he said.

"They didn't kill me," said Tyrion.

"That's helpful," said Jaime. "How did you get out anyway? I did not think my attack on Ned Stark had any effect, or that word had even spread that far."

"I heard," said Tyrion. "Rumours spread very quickly, brother. Men gossip, for they can only amuse themselves so much with drink and fornication."

"You seem to do well enough with just the latter two," said Jaime. They left the armourers at the mercy of the hill tribes. The men were most reluctant to help, but they could not refuse a Lannister, particularly not sons of Tywin.

"Well," said Jaime. "Now that you're back, I could use a little help."

"I live to serve, brother. What can I do for you?"

"I need to find someone in this camp."

"Do you have a name?"

"If I did, I wouldn't be asking."

"Who is he?"

Jaime paused. "She," he said.

Tyrion had to stop and absorb this. Jaime was looking for a _girl_? The man who had wasted the prime of his life in the Kingsguard because of his love for their _sister_? Well, if he'd found someone else, Tyrion would certainly be the last to protest. Anyone would be an improvement on Cersei.

"You must at least know what she looks like," said Tyrion.

"In great detail," said Jaime. He smirked. "I came across her while she was bathing in the river. She was most impertinent and seemed to mistake me for her maidservant." He proceeded to describe her in great detail, from the gold of her hair and the red of her lips to her well-endowed breasts and buttocks and long lean legs.

Why was it that Jaime had all the luck? While he'd been outwitting mad Arryns and the only lady he'd come home with was Chella of the Black Ears (Bronn was fairer, but didn't really count), his brother found naked golden-haired beauties in the river.

"Well, I'll help you," said Tyrion. "If only because I want to see this vision of yours."

* * *

He had looked and Tyrion had looked, and of all the places she could be, she was sparring with the men on trampled mud. Jaime could recognize that golden hair anywhere. It was braided and pinned up now, out of the girl's way, but then, it didn't exactly work as a disguise. The question was why was she in armour and fighting his father's men?

Man after man fell to her speed and strength. She wasn't terribly skilled with a sword, but her agility impressed even him. It seemed that no matter how quickly her opponent moved, she was always quicker. He joined the small crowd surrounding the fighters. They cheered for their friend. Their friend was tiring while the girl wasn't even breaking a sweat. For the first time in many years, he felt something…

Well, it made him uncomfortable.

"I feel like I'm bullying little boys here," she said to the men as she planted her foot on yet another man's chest and pointed the tip of her practise sword at his throat.

Jaime began to clap slowly. It was as if he broke some sort of spell. The men, who had not noticed him, parted to let him through. The girl looked up. Surprise flashed across her face briefly and she released the man beneath her foot. "Bravo," said Jaime as he approached her. "Although perhaps you might have an undue advantage."

"What do you mean?" Her voice was sharp.

"Just as the Kingsguard would never harm a king, no chivalrous man would harm a lady."

"Are you all chivalrous then?" she asked the men.

"Of course!" they said almost unanimously.

"Are you saying we're not?" demanded one of the bolder soldiers.

"And what if I am? Are you going to fight me to defend your honour again?" asked the girl.

"M'lady, I could never harm a woman. That is simply not done," said the man.

"Yet you beat your wife," muttered the man beside him.

"You…! Slander!"

"Enough of your foolery," said Jaime. "Leave us."

The men bowed and trooped off, some casting curious glances in his direction. The girl made to go to.

"Not you," he said. "You will stay."

"Is there something you want, Lord Jaime?"

So she knew exactly who he was, yet she had chosen to ignore it that day at the river, and she was barely showing him the deference he deserved now.

"I would speak with you. Let us begin with the simple matters, shall we? Your name."

"And what if I choose not to give it?"

"Then I would take it from you."

"By the blade, or by something else?"

He raised eyebrow. Well, she most definitely was not shy, but they had already established that. "Since you are so keen," he said. He drew his blade. She raised hers.

Their blades clashed. She was fast, but she lacked finesse. However, with her kind of agility, it was hardly necessary when duelling with common men.

Jaime was no common man. He led her on, keeping his eyes on hers and paid no attention to their blades. Her eyes were bluish-grey, like steel, and she had freckles across the bridge of her nose. The old wives said they were kisses from the sun. Cersei had never had freckles. She had always been too wary of the sun's effect on her skin to get them.

The girl countered all his blows. Of course he never let her get past him either. That would simply not do. He was Jaime Lannister after all. It was dragging on for far too long than it really ought to. He hadn't shown her everything, but he really shouldn't need to. She was a girl who didn't really know how to wield a sword. That much was obvious from the way she held it and the way she swung it with no judgement.

He pretended to falter and left his guard open. She fell for it. She lunged. He discarded his blade and seized the hilt of hers, pulling her towards him. Their chest plates met. He drew his dagger with his other hand and would have pointed it at the back of her neck, except she caught his wrist. Her grip was most definitely not a lady's.

"Not so fast, my lord," she said.

"If I had truly intended to kill you, you would not have lived," said Jaime.

"If I had intended to kill you, you would deader," she said.

"A pity we cannot test that theory," he said.

"Why ever not? You need only say the word, my lord."

She lifted her head. He could feel her breath. If he bent down just a little, he could kiss her if he wanted to. Of course he didn't.

"Now that I have defeated you, your name, Ser," he said.

"Who says you defeated me, my lord?" She really was impossibly stubborn, which only made her more…interesting.

Someone cleared his throat behind them. Of course Tyrion had been spying all along, as he was wont to. "I should have known that, despite all your learning, you do not know the meaning of the word privacy, dear brother," said Jaime.

"You are in a public place, Jaime. There is no privacy to speak of. Besides, how could I not be here at this momentous occasion, when Jaime Lannister has finally been defeated, and by a lady, no less."

"See? Lord Tyrion is the wisest and fairest of them all," said the girl.

Tyrion bowed while Jaime seethed and decided to finish what Lysa Arryn had started and failed to complete. Sometimes little brothers did not deserve to live.

"I would very much like to know the name of the beautiful maid who defeated my brother, if only so I can sing her praises," Tyrion continued.

The girl smiled, all dimples and sweetness. "Rebekah Mikaelson, Lord Tyrion. I am honoured to make your acquaintance."

* * *

She discreetly admired his green eyes. He was cute, she'd grant him that, and a little older than what she'd normally prefer, but perhaps it wouldn't be such a bad thing. Things had never ended well before when she'd been with boys. Perhaps a real man was what she needed.

'No, Rebekah, you do not _need_ a man,' she scolded herself. It would be nice to have one, but men were not a necessity, unlike good shoes.

Ever since the fight in which she had let him off lightly –for that was the only reason his pride was still intact− she began to see Jaime Lannister everywhere. No, she was not hallucinating about it. It never seemed to be on purpose. They would simply encounter one another while they went about their business. He pretended to ignore her most of the time as she did him, but today, he'd invited her to walk with him and it wasn't as if she could say no even if she had wanted to.

The funny thing was that she hadn't actually wanted to. It could only be because she was bored with the same old same old and Jaime represented something new, or so she told herself.

"I am curious, Rebekah," he was saying as they strolled through the camp, past carts loaded with supplies and weapons and past men drilling with one another. Horses whuffed and steel clashed while soldiers laughed and camp followers in translucent dresses giggled. The ground was soft beneath her booted feet after the powdery rain of the past few days. It had done a number on her armour and she had spent hours oiling it. She needed a squire, and fast.

The men gave her and Jaime a wide berth, although there were more than just a few glances cast in their direction. "How did you come to serve in my father's army?"

"He said he'd make me a knight if I beat another of his, my lord," she replied. "So I beat Amory Lorch. Lord Tywin is a man of his word."

"Well, Lannisters always pay their debts," said Jaime.

"So I've heard," she said. "And I also heard you were in King's Landing serving the king. Why is it that you are here, and not there?"

"There was a horse and a road and the horse was moving and I was on it," said Jaime. "I do believe it's called riding."

He was insufferable, just like Nik! She considered just turning around and walking away to avoid strangling him –because that would be very bad− but decided to sit it out and see what else he could come up with. Jaime Lannister was not like all the other boys she'd ever been with. Not that she was with him. But she could not deny that their first meeting had been…magnetic. When she had first seen him staring at her with a mix of admiration and desire, there had been a _frisson_. They'd both felt it. He was as alien to her as she was to him.

"Did you ask me to walk with you just so you could insult my intelligence, my lord? By the way, that was a 'how', not a 'why'."

He smirked. "I merely think a woman of your intellect would be able to deduct that when a storm comes, perhaps seeking shelter is the wisest course of action."

"Yet it was you who caused the storm." Yes, she'd heard, but she wanted to hear it from him. It was her greatest goal to date; making Jaime Lannister admit out loud he'd done something stupid.

"Must you judge me at every turn?"

"Should I answer that?"

He chuckled. "You know, you did not defeat me. My brother would simply seize every opportunity to bring me down to his level. As you know, my lady, that is very far to fall."

"I object," said Tyrion. Where did he come from? She hadn't even heard him. Rebekah had to give the 'littlest lord' some credit. For someone who seemed so ungainly, he was certainly a master of stealth and very good at going unnoticed unless he wanted to be seen. "You are not that tall, Jaime."

"Perhaps I ought to leave you to it, my lords," she said. Without waiting for a response from either of them, she curtseyed and left.

"Thank you for your continued timely interruptions, brother," said Jaime when he thought she was out of earshot. She had to suppress a giggle. "We were having a perfectly good conversation."

"I was not aware that Kingsguard conversed with women, Jaime," said Tyrion.

"A conversation is hardly fornication, Tyrion," said Jaime. "You really ought to know the difference."

Obviously, Jaime Lannister had never heard of sexting.

* * *

**King's Landing**

There was no one who knew how to ruin one's day like Robert Baratheon, but his northern fool of a friend came pretty close. Cersei Lannister was not a woman who could be summoned, save by her father, the most powerful man in all of Westeros. Eddard Stark came limping down the garden path, his face grim and humourless as usual, but his limp was not as pronounced as it ought to be for a man who'd just had a spear in his leg. "Your Grace," he said. He gave her a stiff little bow. Not nearly adequate enough.

"I hear you 'summoned' me," she said, not even bothering with pleasantries.

"I wanted to speak with you, yes," he said. He couldn't even see he was standing on a knife's edge; the sharp edge. If he weren't her sworn enemy by fault of being Robert's best friend, she might have even pitied him. Oh yes, she knew about his investigations. He had not been subtle about them, going to the smithy ever so often just like Jon Arryn before him and requesting that book from Pycelle. Hadn't Arryn's fate been enough to warn him that it was not a good idea? But then, Eddard Stark had always had a particularly bad sense of self preservation. He really should learn from his charming bannerman Damon. It was better to be her friend than her enemy. A Lannister always paid her debts.

"Your children," he continued. "They're all Jaime's, aren't they?"

Did he just _say_ that to her face? "How did you know?" she asked. Her smile felt frozen on, as it had been for the past seventeen years of marriage with Robert.

"Lucky guess," said Stark.

"Oh, don't judge," said Cersei. "It's not as if Robert was ever sober enough to get a child on me. Sometimes I even wondered if he remembered I existed. On our wedding night, he stumbled into my bedroom reeking of wine, fumbling with me like I was one of his whores."

She remembered that night all so clearly; the night when her heart broke, when bitterness replaced what youthful hope she had had, when she realized the only man she could ever trust was Jaime because he had loved her enough to take the white cloak. She had endured Robert's rough and badly aimed thrusts because she had believed it would get better, that he would come to love her when he knew her. He had hurt her. He hadn't even cared or noticed and she'd forgiven him for that because she'd put it down to the wedding wine.

But the final straw came with his shuddering release that had brought her no satisfaction. He had whispered a name into her ear, but it had not been her name. Even now, the sound of his voice echoed in her mind like an icy wind across the frozen wasteland that was her heart, freezing her further, until she could feel nothing but disdain for that once fierce handsome man she had once, briefly, foolishly, loved.

Love was a fool's emotion. People who loved only got hurt, and she was _never_ going to be hurt by anyone ever again.

But, of course Eddard Stark would never understand. He was a man. He had far fewer restrictions than a woman ever would have. No one would ever judge him for having other women on the side, just as no one judged Robert for visiting the whorehouse more often than he visited her bed. But if anyone knew of her men, they would make her walk naked through the streets of King's Landing. Even as queen, she was in a cage; a gilded cage full of every comfort a mindless animal could possibly want, but a cage nonetheless.

A lioness would never be content to be caged.

"Take you children as far away as you can," he said. "Robert will know the truth when he returns from his hunt, and I do not want more innocent blood spilled on these stones."

She wanted to laugh. Was he really telling her _this_? Because, really, if he wanted to tell Robert, he should have just gone and done that. Starks and their honour; it was going to kill them all. Although, it wouldn't really have mattered whether he told Robert or not, because Robert was a dead man.

"Is that a threat, Lord Stark?" she asked. "Are you not afraid? I am a Lannister of Casterly Rock. My father is the most powerful man in all the seven kingdoms."

"I am not afraid," he replied. "I know how to kill my enemies."

"So do I," she said. Yes, she did. A woman might not know how to wield a sword, but one did not need a sword in hand to deal out death and destruction.

* * *

**In Transit**

_Dear Petyr,_

_Thank you for your kind letter and your enquiries regarding our family. My father is well although he is still often short of breath. He asks after you. We have seen so little of one another since your departure from Riverrun. _

_Eddard Stark has not yet replied to our enquiries about positions on the Small Council, but I am certain that a man in his position has many responsibilities. Perhaps he might have mentioned it to you? _

_I write not only to ask about Eddard Stark. I would request a favour of you, old friend. I am looking for someone and I understand you would be able to help me since you have eyes everywhere, I am told. Her name is Katherine Pierce. She is a travelling bard. I met her travelling south to Riverrun; from whence I do not know, and I do not know where she is headed. Perhaps you might have heard of her? There are not many women who are bards and she is exceptionally beautiful. _

_I do not much care for the affairs of the Small Council, but I am eager for any news of Katherine. _

_I await your reply with impatience. _

_With respect, _

_Edmure Tully_

* * *

**A/N: **A lot of Lannisters this week. We'll have more Starks and Damon and Jon Snow next week! Thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far! We really love hearing what you guys think and do feel free to suggest things that you might want to see!


	19. Enemy of the State

**Chapter 19: Enemy of the State**

**King's Landing**

Bad things never came on their own. First, he'd heard, after the fact, that Ned had gone to confront Cersei with the one thing Cersei Lannister should _never_ be confronted with, and now the king was dead by pig. The drunken idiot had gone and gotten himself gored by a boar, and he'd died right after he'd dictated his will to Ned, before Damon or Elena could get there in time with their 'special tea'.

"No, no, no," said Damon when Ned told him of all the new developments. "You cannot stay here in King's Landing and put the rightful king on the throne, whatever that means. It doesn't matter if Joffrey's an inbred little bastard. My lord." He was losing his cool here; he'd never met anyone so…so…so…_honestly naive_ as Ned Stark. "He would have been a shit king even if he had been a Baratheon, and he can continue being a shit Baratheon king in the same vein as his father, or foster father."

"Watch your tongue, Salvatore," said Ned sharply. "Robert Baratheon was the rightful king of Westeros."

"And now he's dead, my lord," said Damon. "And you need to start taking care of your own." If only Robb were here. Robb would have talked some sense into his father. He probably would have said the same thing as Damon more or less, perhaps with fewer obscenities, but the main thing was he was Ned's son, and Ned would have listened to him.

"Get ready to leave, Salvatore," said Ned. "I'm putting my family under your protection. Take them back to Winterfell. No matter what happens to me, you must protect them."

The man just couldn't stop making bad decisions, could he? But what else could Damon do except say yes? Well, he _had_ considered knocking Ned Stark out and then just taking him back to Winterfell, but that would attract far too many unwanted questions, and it would be impossible to pull off.

"What are you going to do, my lord?" he asked.

"It is best if you did not know."

The thing was, bad things always came in threes.

* * *

With Robert out of the way, there was no time to waste. Joffrey was angry at having been woken up, but for once, his mood was of no concern to Cersei. "Come, my love," she said as he scowled at her. "Today is the day you will sit upon the Iron Throne."

He stopped scowling after that, because even Joffrey couldn't choose a few more minutes of sleep over the throne. She had him dress in robes of deep red. Wine and blood. Or perhaps just blood, because blood would be spilled. She could already feel it.

"Summon Eddard Stark," she said. "Tell him he will come to the throne room immediately and pay homage to the new king." She hoped he would come, if only to see the look on his face when he realized there was no way he could win against her. She was a Lannister. Lions did not lose to wolves.

* * *

The pen fell from his hand. Cersei Lannister moved quickly. Too quickly. Robert's body was not yet cold, and already she had declared Joffrey king? It was unthinkable.

Baelish's city guard were ready. Everything was in place. All he needed to do was say the word, and Cersei and her children would be hunted to the very ends of the earth. Could he do it? But he had to, for Robert's dynasty. For House Baratheon. It was the right thing to do. He had offered mercy and Cersei hadn't taken it. He looked out the window across the calm city going about its own business as it did every morning. It was as if they hadn't lost a king at all. They did not know a war was looming, or they did not care. It seemed almost a shame to ruin that peace.

But it had to be done, for it was just and right. He finished the letter he was writing to Stannis informing him of his brother's death and the Lannisters' treachery and rolled it up before sealing it with black wax. He pressed his signet ring to it, leaving the impression of the wolf's head.

"Damon," he said.

"My lord," said the knight. "Whatever it is you're planning, it's probably a bad idea."

Ned ignored him. "You're taking the girls home today," he said.

"And yourself?"

And what about himself? Ned didn't know. The north beckoned to him invitingly. He could leave this all behind and forget about the throne and Lannisters and go home. He had his lands to rule, and the men of the south never bothered him. He could leave now and the world would be none the wiser. Joffrey would be king, Sansa would marry someone else much worthier of her, and his family would be whole again.

But he had a duty here. Just one last duty.

"I will follow," he said.

"If you have to go ahead with it, you should take me with you. I'm useful."

"I know you are, which is why you must protect my daughters, Damon." Suddenly, apprehension seized him. From a young age, he had been taught to never show fear, to never feel fear, and thus far he had managed it, but not today. How could a parent not fear for his children's safety? If he succeeded, he would be a king maker. If he failed…

He gripped the mercenary's arm. Grey eyes met blue. "Promise me, Damon," he said. "No matter what happens, you will protect Arya and Sansa."

"I don't make promises lightly, my lord," said Damon. "I promise."

"Good," said Ned. "Now, I need you to take this and send it to Stannis Baratheon. Do not let it out of your sight until you have tied it to the raven's leg and sent it off yourself."

* * *

**Castle Black**

They sat gathered in the courtyard before the Lord Commander. Elena had called this a 'graduation day'. It had stopped snowing, but snow was piled up against the walls, and the air was still cold enough to make one's lungs burn with each breath. Water condensed on the tips of their noses. Jon wondered if there were ice crystals forming on his face.

"Some of you might ask: Why are you here?" the Lord Commander was saying as clouds of steam issued from his mouth. Echoes repeated his words back at him as it reverberated in the otherwise silent courtyard. Birds wheeled overhead in the currents above, too high to care about the goings on of men below. Jon wondered if Elena knew about the fact that today was the day when the recruits took their oaths. He wanted to ask her what he ought to do. What did he want?

"Why are you here?" Mormont asked again. "Do you fight for a king, a lord, the honour of a house? Or do you fight for glory, or gold, or a woman's love?" At that moment, his eyes fell on Jon, and it seemed as if he were aiming his words directly at him. "No. You stand for the realm, and all the people in it."

The realm and all the people in it made Jon feel nothing. It had been the glory and honour of the Night's Watch that had first enticed him. Now even that did not seem to be enough. Something had shifted.

"I still feel no different," murmured Sam to Jon.

"You _are_ no different," Jon whispered back. From his position at Mormont's side, still a little pale but otherwise well on his way to being on the mend, was Benjen. His brow furrowed as he frowned at the two of them for talking. Oops? But that was not his word. That was Elena's word, and Damon's.

"Are there any who still keep the old gods?" asked Mormont.

Jon stood. "I do, my lord," he said.

"There is a weirwood about a mile outside the Wall. You may say your oaths there," said Mormont.

"If I may, Lord Commander, I would like some time to consider my decision," said Jon. All eyes turned to him. "I want to take my oaths for the right reason so there will be no chance for regret in the years to come."

Sam stood as well. "I need time to think about my decision too," he stammered.

Benjen's eyes bored into Jon, and he felt as if his uncle could hear what was going on inside his head. He could almost hear their judgements; from Benjen, from Mormont, and most definitely from Ser Alisser. Jon Snow was forsaking the Watch for a woman, they were thinking. And Sam, of course, always did whatever Jon did.

"You will have time," said Mormont. He did not sound pleased.

"If we may, Lord Commander, Grenn and I also need time to think," said Pyp. Both he and Grenn rose to their feet. Grenn simply nodded. Jon felt horribly exposed, but standing with three of his friends was better than standing on his own. But they really shouldn't be standing with him! Well, Sam had no reason not to, if he wanted to think about his decision, but what other option did Pyp and Grenn have besides going back to King's Landing and facing their other sentences?

"We want to be sure we are taking our oaths for the right reasons, not just because we are afraid of what else lies ahead," said Pyp. "For we cannot rightly fight for the realm if all we want is to save our own skins."

"Idiots," muttered Rast, but at the front, Mormont seemed impressed by Pyp's reasoning, even if he didn't believe him entirely.

Their tasks were assigned anyway, just in case they went ahead with their oaths. Grenn and Pyp were to be rangers if they ever took theirs, and Sam naturally became a steward, and despite not taking his oaths yet, he was to assume his duties immediately. Maester Aemon had needed someone else to help him ever since Elena had left, and Sam was the most well-read out of all the recruits –and possibly out of all the brothers, excepting the maester himself.

And Jon was to become a steward.

The shock, even though he was not sure he would stay to become a brother yet, was great. Him? But he fought better than any of the rangers who had been appointed! Him, a steward?!

"Mormont would have made you his personal steward if you had decided to take your oaths," said Benjen afterward. "But you are not wrong to delay it."

"You do not think me a coward?" asked Jon.

"Too many men take their oaths for the wrong reason. Some wanted adventure, some wanted glory anyway, and some because they felt they had no other path. It takes courage to make your own decisions against all expectations," said Benjen. "If you do decide to become a brother, I would not want you to regret it either. And if you decide not to, there will always be other paths for you to take."

"Damon Salvatore became a knight because he was cocky in front of the king," said Jon with a little smile.

"I do not recommend that path of being cocky to the king," said Benjen. "Now go ahead. Just because you haven't taken your oaths does not mean you may shirk your duties."

Jon nodded and watched his uncle limp off, relying less and less on his cane. "I thought he'd be angrier," said Sam.

"So did I," said Jon. He turned to Grenn and Pyp. "What were you two thinking? It's not as if you have another choice beyond what fate awaits you at King's Landing."

"I was hoping you might be able to help," said Pyp.

"Your father's the Hand of the King," Grenn blurted out. "We were thinkin' that maybe if you did go south to find him, you might be able to have him ask the king to pardon us."

"It was just an idea," said Pyp, looking down at his feet.

Jon sighed. What could he do? He knew their stories, and he knew them. Would it really be so unthinkable to give them a second chance?

"I will ask him if I ever see him," he said. It might even distract his father from the fact he had forsaken the Watch.

* * *

**The Wolfswood**

He had never thought he would hear his brother laugh again. Bran whooped as he leaned forward in his saddle, relishing in the feel of the speed and strength of the horse beneath him and the feel of the wind in his hair. "Don't go too fast," Robb called as he watched Bran from his seat on a fallen tree. Moss had grown over the rough bark, creating a soft green cover.

Bran ignored him as if he were Catelyn calling out to him whilst he was climbing. If he'd listened, he probably would never have needed his special saddle in the first place. He supposed he really did have to thank Tyrion Lannister, even if he was a Lannister. Or half a Lannister. Maybe made him twice as tolerable.

The birds trilled in the branches above as pale sun illuminated the translucent leaves, casting green light below. Soft breezes from the south flew by, bringing the smell of shrubs and hardy late summer flowers. They would be gone soon as the ice encroached from the north, but winter was already here.

"There will be war," said Theon as he sat beside Robb. "The Lannisters put a spear through your father's leg and killed Jory Cassel and your mother has taken Tyrion Lannister prisoner. Are you really going to do nothing about it?"

"We keep the peace," said Robb, even though he didn't want to. But that was what his father would have wanted.

"Since when did you turn into a coward, Robb Stark?" asked Theon.

"And since when did Greyjoys become such an authority on cowardice. Oh yes, I _remember_, when Balon Greyjoy surrendered and handed over his only living son as a hostage. Perhaps you should worry about your family, and I shall worry about mine," said Robb.

He was _not_ a coward. He simply was not as rash and reckless as Theon wanted him to be. He was the lord of Winterfell now. He couldn't afford to be rash and reckless, no matter how much he admired the foolhardiness of some men. If he had been Damon, he would have ridden off in a heartbeat to challenge the Lannisters, but he was Robb Stark, and Robb Stark had responsibilities.

Suddenly he realized it was too quiet. Bran had stopped whooping and cheering. In fact, Bran was nowhere to be seen.

"Where's Bran?" he said as he leapt to his feet, his hand on his sword. The birds continued to sing. He heard nothing else.

"I don't know," said Theon. "He's not my brother."

He would speak with Theon later. "Bran!" he called. No answer.

He ran through the underbrush, the woods suddenly turning into a dangerous place perfect for ambushes by enemies of any kind, whether they be wild animals, men, or…

No, there was no such thing as vampires.

But there were wildlings. Four men and a woman –at least, he thought it was a woman− had seized Bran. They had cut him from his saddle, and were in the process of searching him for gold. So enamoured were they by their spoils that they did not see him. He charged at them from behind. They had made the mistake of turning their backs to him and not posting a guard. His sword cleaved through skin and bone and brain matter as it went down through one of the men's skulls, but while the blade remained embedded in bone, he braced himself for the blow he knew would be coming. The woman struck him from behind. The blunted wood-axe bounced off his armour, but it drove the rings into him, and if he hadn't been wearing a quilted gambeson, the chainmail would have become embedded in his flesh. He struck out with his foot and kicked her out of the way. The other two engaged him. He disarmed one of them who was wielding a club. The man screamed as his fingers were sliced cleanly off. Another tried to hold in his entrails as Robb gutted him from navel to sternum.

"Robb!"

He whipped around to find one of the men had seized Bran and had a knife to his throat.

He cursed himself for his recklessness. What had he been trying to prove? That he was not a coward? That hardly needed proving, and now Bran was a hostage, and he had no way of getting him out of that situation.

At least, not until he saw the figure moving up behind the man.

"You harm a hair on his head, and I will have yours," Robb said to the man, keeping his voice calm and even so as to not alert him to the maidservant's presence. She only needed to catch him off-guard, and Robb estimated he would be able to finish them all off if they did not have Bran. His brother scrabbled at the man's arm, but to no avail. "Spare him, and I will spare your life."

"And if you don't put your sword down, I'll slit his throat from ear to ear," snarled the man. He did not sound like a wildling, and his armour and black cloak were too well made. A Night's Watch deserter, then?

"Behind you, Stiv!" shouted the wildling woman. Damn her! The man called Stiv whirled around before Bonnie could strike him with the rock in her hand, but at that moment, he loosened his grip on Bran.

The boy fell to the ground as the club-wielder, now missing two fingers, lunged for him, and ran right into Robb's blade. The look of surprise on his face would have almost been comical, but Robb was in no mood to laugh. He ran for Bran, only to have the woman charge at him again, taking up her comrade's fallen club.

Something whistled through the air. An arrow sprouted from the back of Stiv's neck as he grappled with Bonnie. Robb shoved the woman to the ground and pointed his sword at her neck. "What were you thinking?" he demanded of Theon, who stood with his bow in hand, still raised, and his hand reaching for another arrow in his quiver.

"About saving Bonnie, and you as well, although the gods only know why I try," replied Theon.

"You could have hit Bran, or her!"

"I don't miss, if that's what you're implying, Robb Stark."

Robb had to admit, the Ironborn always got his shot. It was something Robb had always admired him and envied him for, because no matter how good he became, he would never be as good an archer. It grated at him, no matter how many times his father told him he did not need to be as good an archer as Theon or as good a fighter as Damon, so long as he could command and wield men like them.

Instead of responding to Theon, he turned to Bonnie and commended her for her courage in attempting to save Bran, no matter how badly it had turned out for her. She was loyal. Of that much he could be certain.

"What is going to happen to her, my lord?" asked the maid, pointing her chin in the direction of the wildling woman, if she could be called a woman.

Her hair was shaggier than the coat of a bear in winter, and the layer of dirt on her was so thick it was almost impossible to discern the colour of her skin.

"Finish her and leave her to the beasts," said Theon. "Or maybe the vampire will come. Although I haven't heard of it around Winterfell for a while."

"Have mercy, m'lords!" begged the wildling woman.

"And why would I show mercy to an oath breaker?" asked Robb, still levelling his sword at her.

"I'm one of them Free Folk. I didn't swear no oaths to you or your father, and I didn't break none either."

She had a point, he had to admit. "Bind her and take her back to Winterfell," he said to Theon. She looked like she could be useful, as he wanted to know why there were wildlings south of the Wall.

* * *

**Winterfell**

Bonnie sorted through her basket of herbs and fungi she had gathered from the Wolfswood as the wildling woman Osha quietly scrubbed the floor on her hands and knees, the chains around her ankles and wrists clanking as she moved. At first, the witch paid her no heed, but then she suddenly came to realize that the scratching of bristles on stone had stopped. She looked up to find Osha staring at her, her face full of unbridled curiosity.

"What are you looking at?" she asked.

"You've got power," said the wildling. "You have that look about you."

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Bonnie. How could she possibly know? But Bonnie herself knew nothing about wildlings. Perhaps they were more attuned to nature and magic than Westerosians were.

The wildling woman gave her a look, as if saying, 'What kind of southern idiot do you take me for?'

"I've seen things north o' the Wall," continued Osha. "Things that your little lord don't believe in, but I'd done seen 'em, and they're as real as you an' me. Maybe it's a good thing you're here. They're going to need whatever it is you've got."

Deciding that she'd had enough judging for a day, and that Osha was getting far too close to the truth than she was comfortable with, she took her herbs away to the maester's quarters where she could sort them out in peace, but even long after she was gone, she could still feel the wildling woman's eyes on her back.

* * *

**King's Landing**

She didn't want to go back to Winterfell, back to the monotonous boredom of having only Jeyne Poole for company and of dreaming that one day she would meet a great lord. "It's the worst possible time to leave," Sansa was saying to Septa Mordane as they walked down the sunlit halls of the Tower of the Hand. It looked so inviting and luxurious with their beautiful columns of limestone, unlike the drab grey walls of Winterfell, which were stained with soot from the smoky torches in their old metal brackets. No matter how many hangings her mother tried to put in the halls, they would never be beautiful. "Why can't we stay for Joffrey's coronation? I'm to be his queen, after all. What do you think, Elena?"

The older girl smiled serenely. "I am sure Lord Stark has his reasons," she said. "It is not in my place to question him."

Sansa resisted the urge to yell. She had thought that Elena of all people would understand! She had travelled so far and seen so much. This was Sansa's first glimpse of the real world, and she wanted to see more of it, not to go back to her father's own little corner and remain in the shadows forever. Suddenly, Elena stiffened and dropped the bundle in her arms. Her whole demeanour changed, as if she were about to run.

"Elena, what's wrong?" asked Sansa.

"Hush," said Elena. "Fighting."

Why would they be fighting? Sansa wanted to ask, but Elena and Septa Mordane hurried her towards her room, leaving her no breath to talk. The stones were hard beneath Sansa's soft new kid-skin slippers, and her legs became tangled in her skirts. She didn't know why, but she was frightened. Why would there be fighting, and in the Red Keep of all places? She expected the rabble to fight from time to time, but what did men in the Red Keep have to fight about? There was no tourney on. Screams came from outside as men and women of her household died. Why? How? She did not understand, and if it had not been for Septa Mordane and Elena holding her arms on either side, she probably would have stumbled and fallen from the shock.

Men in the uniform of the Kingsguard and the Lannister guards intercepted them. Thick ruby droplets trickled down their bared blades and fell onto the pale stone beneath their feet. No. No.

"Elena, get Sansa to her room and barricade the door," said Septa Mordane. The old woman placed herself between Sansa and the men, her face harder and more impassive than ever before. But even the hard old septa would never be able to hold off those guards. She had nothing. They had swords, and they'd used them already.

"Come, Sansa," said Elena. Sansa allowed herself to be dragged along. Shadows flashed past her vision as they passed through the colonnaded hall around the outside of the tower. The sounds of fighting were clearer and closer now. Glints of steel cast blinding light into her eyes.

"Why are we going this way?" she demanded when Elena took another turn and led her towards the kitchens. "Septa Mordane said to go to my room!"

"That's a dead end," said Elena. "I'm getting you out of here."

They rounded another corner. Sansa crashed into Elena's back as the other girl suddenly stopped.

"Lady Sansa," said the Hound. He stood before them, a terrifying ruined spectre of a man. "The King requires your presence." He smiled, making the scars on the burned side of his face constrict and stretch most terribly.

"If the king wants me, he can come and get me himself," said Sansa. She hated the Hound and his ugly scars, and Joffrey knew that. Why would he send _him_ of all people to fetch her?

"I am afraid my lady must decline the king's request," said Elena. She kept herself in front of Sansa, using her slight frame as a shield between her and the monster that was a Clegane.

The Hound gave a grim chuckle, and then he lunged for Elena as if to push her out of the way. She was quicker. In fact, Sansa had never seen anyone move so quickly, save for Damon. Elena evaded the man's charge, trapping his arm beneath hers and then aiming for his neck. He barely managed to evade her blow which would have –hopefully− broken his neck. She flung him back. He staggered a few steps.

"Run, Sansa!" she shouted. Sansa wasted no time. She ran. The sound of combat continued. Steel struck stone. She heard the Hound's snarl and Elena's growl. She had to get out like she said. The girl almost tripped on the steps but she threw her hand out and clutched the wall just in time and continued running. Where was her father? Where was Damon? How could they let this happen?

Bodies lay scattered at her feet, beheaded, shot, trampled, with their brains splattered on the ground. Silverware and clothing were strewn all over. Faces that had once smiled at her now stared blankly back, their mouths opened in silent screams of horror forever more. Bile rose.

Then she screamed as someone seized her arm. "You're coming with us, Lady Sansa," said the Kingsguard.

* * *

"What do you hope to achieve here, girl?" asked the Hound. He watched her movements warily. His sword was pointed at her, but he made no move to charge. Elena knew she had the ability to fight him until he lost out of sheer exhaustion, but that was not the point. She had to find Sansa and Arya and Damon and get out of here. She was not going to achieve anything by defeating Sandor Clegane.

"Don't you ever get tired of being treated like an attack dog?" she asked as she slowly moved backwards, never taking her eyes off her opponent.

"What's it to you?"

"I'm saying you're a man. Be a man, not a hound." The window was behind her. She vaulted backwards. The ground rushed to meet her. Twigs cracked as she fell through the boughs of the trees waiting below. She landed on her feet. As a human, her legs would have broken, but vampires had stronger bones. She saw Sandor peering out the window in disbelief, but she didn't wait for him to find out that she was not dead.

* * *

**A/N: **See? We did say things were going to change. What is Jon going to do next? And what is Elena up to? Does she even _have_ a plan?


	20. The Walking Dead

**Chapter 20: The Walking Dead**

**King's Landing: The Red Keep**

Never be on the defensive. Arya was trying not to. Wooden swords clacked. Syrio tapped her shoulder again. "Dead," he said.

"How many times is that today?" she asked.

"Does it matter? You can only die once," replied the Braavosi.

Too late did Arya hear the sound of iron-shod feet pounding the flagstones outside before the men came in. Their red and white cloaks fanned out behind them and then became still as they took their places in the doorway before herself and Syrio. Silver and gold visors hid their faces, except for the one at the very front. She recognized Ser Meryn Trant, one of the knights from the Kingsguard who had gone to Winterfell with King Robert.

"You're coming with us, Arya Stark," he said. "Your father wants you."

At first, Arya thought nothing of it, but when Syrio stopped her from stepping forward, she noticed their swords were covered with fresh blood.

"Oh, so Lord _Stark_ employs _Lannister_ men and Kingsguard now, does he?" asked Syrio. He seemed relaxed, letting his sword arm hang by his side, the wooden hilt loose in his grip, but Arya knew better. She'd seen him take guard immediately from this position. Unlike her, he didn't need to prepare himself, and there was no sign that he would strike until he did.

"Out of the way, foreigner," said Ser Meryn. "This is not your business."

"Ah, but it is," said Syrio. He glanced at Arya. "Leave now. This is no child's game. Go."

One of the Lannister men rushed at Syrio. The little Braavosi easily sidestepped and struck his head with the wooden sword so hard it sent him hurtling into one of the pillars. The other men converged on him. He moved like water, never stopping, and never ungraceful. His movements came to him as if he were born with a sword in his hand, although Arya could believe it.

"Go!" he shouted to her again.

She ran, darting for the back door that led down to the dungeons because that was the only path open to her. Her heart was beating so loudly she could barely hear anything else. She had to find her father. Find her father. Where was her father? How could he have allowed this to happen? She thought they were going home today!

Voices at the bottom of the steps made her crouch down in the shadows, and then she couldn't resist peering back into the room where she had spent so many happy hours practising with Elena and Syrio. The Braavosi circled Ser Meryn. The latter's heavy armour stopped any blows from the wooden sword. Meryn grabbed the wooden blade. Down came the steel. The wood splintered, leaving Syrio with only a stump. No matter how skilled he was, Arya knew. Men with swords always won against men without.

Meryn swung at Syrio. The man jumped out of the way, but the sword sliced through his sleeve. "You know what I tell death?" asked the Braavosi. "Not today."

Meryn made to charge again, but he suddenly stiffened and jerked, arching his back in silent agony while his mouth worked to scream. The man was lifted off his feet as red liquid rained down onto the flagstones with a splatter, splashing onto the black leather boots behind him.

Damon peered around his dangling body. She had never been so glad to see anyone in her life, not that she was going to hug him. All right, part of her wanted to fling herself into Damon's arms, but she had more self-control than that. Instead, she stayed hidden in the shadows. Besides, she did not know this Damon.

Blood stained his face and dripped from his chin. Fury darkened his eyes, and veins snaked up beneath his skin, while his teeth were terrifyingly white and sharp against his blood-reddened lips. He raised Ser Meryn as if he were a puppet, his hand deeply embedded in the man's back. "I was ambushed and I was shot," he said. "And now I'm just pissed off."

* * *

The ambush came without warning. Well, it was an ambush and the lack of a warning was kind of the whole point. Arrows flew in over the walls as Damon had been making sure the coffers were being tied down correctly. Two armour-piercing crossbow bolts –pointless, considering he wasn't wearing armour, but he supposed they were being thorough– struck him in the side, and one in the lower abdomen. The Lannister flood rushed in, killing everyone in their path. Of course, they ignored the prone man lying on the flagstones with three arrows in him. Their mistake. Damon didn't like getting ambushed, and he liked getting shot even less.

He moved before they could scream a warning. Warm sweet blood anointed him. He was baptized in life and death. If one did not look too closely, one could have mistaken him for wearing red gloves. There was great satisfaction in plunging his hands into the chest cavities of men to seize their still beating hearts. He wanted to see the life of his enemies leave their eyes and their fear as they realized what it was that had killed them. Bones broke beneath his fingers. A spinal column was unsheathed as he wrenched a man's head from his shoulders. He used that like a whip, except it wasn't very effective because the vertebrae kept breaking off. Oh, how he had _missed_ this. Hopefully Elena wouldn't see. If she did, he would plead self-defence.

Some of them made to run, but no human could outrun a vampire, particularly not within a walled compound. Their skulls were crushed against stone. It was time someone painted the Red Keep fifty shades of crimson.

_No matter what happens, you will protect Arya and Sansa._

Killing Lannister men was not the point. He had made a promise to Ned Stark, and somehow, he felt a compulsion to keep it. He didn't know why. Perhaps the Stark honour had corrupted him. But he had to find Elena and the girls and get them out of here before Cersei's men got them. Or was it the girls and Elena? Never mind. It was all the same. Besides, he needed to kill everyone who had seen his true form.

He sped into the tower. Bodies littered every corner and the halls, arms and legs askew at awkward angles. Amongst them was Septa Mordane's corpse lying in a pool of sticky blood. Her eyes were beginning to cloud over. Damon ran through the halls, checking room after room after room until he finally came to what he had dubbed the dance studio.

Well, that wasn't fair. Seven against one, and Forel only had a wooden practise sword. If it had been steel, the Braavosi would not have even needed his help. But as it was, the wooden sword splintered and broke as Ser Meryn Trant's blade came down upon it. The wooden blade clattered to the floor, leaving in Forel's hand only the stump which was no good for anything except staking vampires at close range, and that was not the objective here at all.

The Kingsguard all wore plate armour. From the front, they were just about unassailable human tanks. However, their armour was tied at their backs. The weakness was very small; too small unless one had an impossibly good aim. For a human, at least.

Damon's fingers plunged through fabric, skin and flesh. Splintered bone scratched the back of his hand. He wrapped his fingers around Trant's pulsing heart. It fluttered furiously against his hand like a captured butterfly as panic seized the man before it stopped.

Damon yanked his hand out of the man, his fingers clutched around the fresh lump of muscle which, a few seconds ago, had been pumping blood through his body. Meryn fell to the floor like a broken doll, red liquid oozing from the hole in his back.

"How is this possible?" whispered Syrio. He took a step back from the vampire, but he did not turn and run. A brave man, although possibly not the smartest man. Then again, perhaps he knew he could not flee from the best predator the world had ever known.

"Because I'm Damon Salvatore," said Damon. He retracted his fangs. This was more blood than he had had in centuries. That was one great thing about medieval conflict, he supposed. There was no such thing as human rights or crimes against humanity. You came, you conquered, and you killed. Then you had lunch. "You can come out now, Arya. I'm not hungry anymore." He'd known she was there the whole time. Her heart had been beating so quickly he could have danced to it.

"You're a vampire, aren't you?" she asked as she emerged. Her voice bore the same cold tone as her brother's would have if he had been the one coming across such a situation. She was most certainly Robb Stark's sister.

"Well, you're observant, I'll give you that," said Damon.

"You're a vampire and you ate garlic," said Arya. "Were any of the things you told us true?"

"Well, I do like blood," said Damon. He took a sip from the torn vein protruding from Trant's heart. Vile men did not necessarily mean vile blood.

He cleaned his face up with a corner of Ser Meryn's white cloak and began to strip one of the Lannister guards of his armour. The man was still alive, but quickly ceased to be when Damon broke his neck as if his bones were made of glass. He donned the armour, red cloak and golden helmet and all. No one would be able to tell he was a Stark man rather than a Lannister man.

Then he stripped Meryn of his armour and clothes, and before anyone could stop him, he'd taken up a knife and begun to carve a large D on his chest.

"Don't put your name on him, Damon!" cried Arya.

"I wasn't going to!" What? Him? Of course he hadn't been about to carve his name on the body! Well, okay, perhaps the thought had crossed his mind once or twice, or maybe five or six times, but he wasn't going to do it now.

Dead flesh was easy to write on. Living people had the bad habit of struggling when one tried to carve things into their skin. He tied a rope tightly about Trant, wrapping it once around his neck, around his arms, and then back up around his neck again. Then he secured the rope to one of the columns and threw the body out the window.

The rope slithered out like a snake and went taut as it reached its full length.

"Now, let's go," said Damon.

"I know a way," said Arya. "Follow me."

* * *

The body hung from the window, like a grotesque doll swinging in the wind. Meryn Trant's glassy eyes still betrayed the horror he had known right before he'd died.

"Cut him down," whispered Cersei. Too many people had seen it already. The body fell with a dull thud as the rope was severed. His heart lay on the ground below the window from which both it and the body had been tossed. Someone had ripped it out from Meryn from behind and then left it there like an offering to the gods, or perhaps to taunt the men who found it, but that was not what made Cersei's blood chill.

Whoever had killed him –the _Stark_ man who had killed him and almost all the other men who had been sent− had left a message in large bloody block letters carved onto the man's front.

DRACULA WAS HERE

* * *

Arya waited impatiently with Syrio for Damon's 'ree-con-nay-sonce' mission in the Red Keep. Everyone was saying her father had been arrested for treason, and the vampire had admitted that yes, it was probably true, and he had known that her father had been planning something for a little while, and nothing Damon had said had been able to dissuade him.

The terror of the past few hours had caught up with her. She swallowed, trying not to cry, because tears were for cowards and Sansa, but she wanted to do nothing more than sob. Her father was captured, her sister and Elena were missing, and Septa Mordane was dead. Why had they come to King's Landing? They should have stayed in Winterfell with Robb and Bran and everything would have been fine!

Around them, bakers' boys continued to make their deliveries as Arya crouched in the shadows of the little abandoned house Damon had found for them. Only broken furniture, cobwebs and a single sad broom remained. The previous 'tenants' of the house had been easily evicted. Disease-ridden beggars and vagabonds wandered around aimlessly. Her stomach grumbled, but the very thought of food made her feel a little sick.

Damon dropped down from the hole in the roof, his stolen armour tied up in a bundle on his back. She supposed it would be very strange for a Lannister guardsman to be running around in Flea Bottom. Damon, however, seemed to know the place better than a Stark man-at-arms ought to.

"They have Sansa," he said. Arya had never seen him so serious before. There was no humour in his ice blue eyes. "Ned's been put into the Black Cells. They are probably planning on doing…well, un-nice things to him."

Arya bit her lip. She'd heard stories of the Black Cells. Men went mad in there or died of hunger or thirst.

"What now?" asked Syrio. "Oh, no, Salvatore. You may have the strength of one hundred men and the swiftness of wind, but even you cannot steal Lord Stark from the Black Cells and expect success."

"I just want to talk to him," said Damon. "He should at least know what is going on, and he might know more than what we do. There may yet be hope." She perked up at that word. Her father had a chance? Well, he did have a vampire on his side. That had to count for something, right? Damon was probably ancient and had all sorts of tricks up his sleeve. If there was anyone who could get her father out, it was Damon.

"I don't think Cersei has forgotten that Robb still guards the north, and I don't know about her, but even I know not to mess with Robb," said the vampire.

"Except bite him," muttered Arya.

"What he doesn't know won't hurt anyone," said Damon.

"How do you plan on reaching Lord Stark?" asked Syrio.

"I have my ways and my friends," said Damon.

* * *

**King's Landing: The Street of Silk **

It had gone a little awry, and Petyr would be the first to admit that, but so long as everyone, including Ned Stark himself, listened to Sansa's sweet pleadings, it should all right itself in the end. Little Sansa did not have Cat's fire, but she probably had more sense than both her father and mother combined. However, just in case Ned was being particularly Starkish, Petyr had started buying up armouries and weapons forges. When there was war, lions and wolves slaughtered each other in the thousands, and the humble carrion bird would pick at their leavings and grow fat and full. He was going to be that humble carrion bird.

He went through the numbers in his head as he wandered into the darkened room. Had the servants forgotten to light the lamps? Did he really have to do everything himself? He made to light one.

"So, I heard you held a dagger to Ned Stark's throat while his men were slaughtered," said a familiar voice from the shadows. He stopped. "Tell me why I shouldn't rip out your throat now. And don't even bother alerting anyone. You'll be dead before you can open your mouth."

"Damon," said Petyr. He did not bother turning around. If Damon wanted to be seen, he would be seen. If he didn't, then he had a feeling that no matter how hard he tried to spot him, he wouldn't be able to. On the other hand, if Damon had wanted him dead, he probably would have done it already. Everyone wanted something, and everyone had their price. "I merely prevented dear Ned from throwing himself onto the blades of his enemies, as you know he would have done."

The mercenary emerged from behind Petyr's desk. In the dark, his eyes were pits so deep a man could fall in and never get out. "I heard about the massacre of Lannister men and poor Ser Meryn, and I wondered if you had a hand in it," continued Petyr.

"The Red Keep should actually be a shade of red, or else it would just be the Pink Keep, don't you agree?" asked Damon. The man examined his fingernails.

"How did you do it? No one else survived," said Petyr.

"Cersei likes me," said Damon.

What was that supposed to mean? Had Cersei let him go deliberately? Was Damon in league with the queen? But that made no sense. If he was in league with the queen, then why would he be here now hiding? Unless Cersei was using him to do her dirty work? How much did Damon know anyway?

"I need your help, Baelish, and after what you did to my liege, I figured you owe me."

"It would depend on the details," said Petyr. "You still haven't told me what you want."

"It would be next to nothing for a man of your means," said Damon. "I mean, you don't want to be Ser Meryn's friend, do you?"

Petyr did not like threats, even valid ones. Particularly _not_ valid ones. "Evidently you need me alive or else you would not be here." He poured two cups of wine and drank from one to indicate it was not poisoned.

Damon took the other cup and downed it in one gulp before sitting down. "Nice wine. Oaken barrel, about seven years old?"

"Very good, Ser Salvatore," said Petyr. "Now, how about we discuss this like civilized men?"

"You can try," said Damon. "But remember, I am of the north. We are not exactly known for our great and sophisticated civilization."

* * *

**The King's Landing: The Red Keep**

The Black Cells were aptly named. No light could penetrate the three foot thick stone walls situated so far beneath the Red Keep that one had to wonder if the other side of the world were beneath their feet. But it was too cold to be near the core of the planet, or even the mantle. It was just as well Damon didn't really need any light to see. The ability to see in perfect darkness was one of the first boons about being a vampire he had discovered.

Moisture dripped from the walls. It smelled of death and decay and old bone and mildew. He heard Ned's breathing before he saw him. The man's leg wound had opened again and started bleeding during the struggle, but otherwise, he seemed unharmed. For now, Ned was sleeping. Damon kept to the deepest shadows behind one of the stone walls several feet away, aware that there would be other eyes watching the former Hand. Certainly there were eyes watching Damon. When one contacted one of the premium spy masters in King's Landing, one could expect every move to be documented.

But Damon had an undue advantage.

* * *

_He was back in the north again. The boughs of the Wolfswood formed a canopy above his head, but he could see glimpses of blue sky between the deep green leaves. It was one of those rare summer days. Small white flowers bloomed on the grasslands that stretched out towards Winterfell. A thrush had a snail in its beak nearby and was in the process of smashing the shell against a tree root. A warm breeze brushed his face. It smelled of fresh grass and sun-warmed soil. _

"_You like it?" _

_Ned whipped around. "Damon?" he asked. "What are you doing here? What am I doing here? They took me to the Black Cells." He didn't bother saying that this was not the Black Cells. _

"_Don't get too excited," said Damon. "This is a dream, nothing more. What I'm about to tell you, however, is very real." _

"_How is this possible? Why would I dream of you of all people?" _

"_Because I made it so," said Damon. "I don't know if you've realized, but I'm not an ordinary person. In fact, I am a very _extraordinary _person. You know that story I was telling your children about vampires? It's kind of based on fact." _

_Ned took a step back as Damon's eyes darkened and his teeth elongated and sharpened. _

"_Yes, Ned. I am vampire, and I am in your dreams because I needed a place to talk to you in private. Don't worry. If I'd wanted to hurt you, you'd never have lived this long." _

_It was true. He had trusted Damon so much that if the man –vampire− had wanted to kill him, he would have had plenty of opportunities. _

"_Where is Arya?" asked Ned. _

"_Arya's safe with Forel and me," said Damon. "Cersei has Sansa. I don't know if I can get her out." _

"_I know," said Ned. "Varys told me she had pleaded for my life, and Cersei might spare me if I confessed, but you and I both know the truth. I know too much, as do you." _

"_So what are you going to do?" asked Damon. _

"_I don't know, Damon. But no matter what happens and what I decide, you must take Arya back to Winterfell. Tell Robb everything that has transpired here. Stannis is the rightful heir to the throne and Robb must support him." _

"_Bleh," said Damon._

_Ned gripped the vampire by both shoulders. "Promise me." _

"_No, I won't," said Damon. "I'm not gonna put stick-up-his-ass Stannis on the throne! He wants to ban fun, Ned! I'd rather support…" Here, he paused as if trying to think of a suitable replacement for Stannis, as if there could be one. Stannis was the rightful king and heir! _

_Damon's face lit up as the answer came to him. "Robb!"_

_The emphatic manner in which Damon pronounced his son's name sent a shiver down Ned's spine. How had Robb inspired so much loyalty in so short a time, and in a man such as Damon? And Robb on the Iron Throne? Unthinkable! But...what if… _

_No, he couldn't. It would be the ultimate dishonour!_

"_No, Damon. Not Robb. _StannisBaratheon_ is the rightful heir to the throne!" _

"_I don't give a flying fuck. I might have even considered honouring your request if you'd said Renly, but Stannis? Nobody likes Stannis. The man wants to end all brothels. Then he'll probably want to ban sex, and make drinking illegal. What? What are you going to do about it? Hit me? I'm in your head, buddy, controlling your dream. So go on, hit me. But if I'm gonna have to support a king, and I'm not really a monarchist unless _I'm _the monarch, then my money's on Robb." _

_Black storm clouds moved across the blue skies, obscuring the sun and casting a shadow over them. Damon began striding away towards Winterfell, except it had now turned into King's Landing, and from every parapet and battlement in the Red Keep, the wolf was flying proudly. _

"_Do not turn your back on me, Damon Salvatore! There is only one rightful king, and that is Stannis! Not Joffrey, not Renly, and most definitely not Robb!" _

_He suddenly found himself transported into the throne room, standing in a pool of blood, but instead of Robert, Stannis, Renly, Joffrey, or even a young _Jaime Lannister_ sitting there, he saw his son, crowned in gold with a sceptre in one hand and something that looked like a ball of metal in the other. _

"_No, no," whispered Ned. He looked about wildly. No one else was there, except Damon. The vampire grinned, showing his sharp white fangs. _

"_Well, if you _really_ don't like it…" _

_All the wolves turned into ravens as he spoke, and instead of Robb sitting on the Iron Throne, Damon now sprawled there as if he had _always_ been there with a golden goblet of blood in his hand. "King Damon Salvatore has a nice sort of ring to it, don't you think?" _

* * *

Ned woke up drenched in sweat. "Damon!" he roared. His voice echoed, shouting the mercenary's name back at him.

"Bad dream, my lord?" asked Varys. The smoky torch he held seemed impossibly bright.

"It's nothing," said Ned. "I thought I saw someone."

"Your bannerman," said the Spider. He crouched down and offered Ned a small loaf of bread. Ned tore into it hungrily, but it tasted like ash on his tongue. Damon would dishonour House Stark with his treasonous ways, and Robb was young enough to be influenced. "Did you know he's currently making the most surprising visit to the queen? Yes, he's up there now. I do think Cersei is quite enamoured with him."

* * *

Who said men couldn't multi-task? All he needed to do was establish the initial connection with Ned, and voila, secret message delivered. He would probably need to get another drink tonight, though. He discarded the dark hooded cloak he had worn down into the Black Cells. Now that he'd gotten Ned all up to speed, it was time for part two.

He had explored every part of the Red Keep upon first arriving in King's Landing, and he knew it as well as he knew his own house. Cersei's quarters faced the south west so she would receive all the warm winds and most of the light from the dying sun each day. Tapestries depicting lions and men dressed in red and gold announced that he had arrived at the borders of her domain. He'd never seen Casterly Rock save in rather inaccurate and amateurish paintings, but he imagined that the halls of Casterly Rock wouldn't look too different as far as the décor went.

"I wish to see Her Grace," he said to the guardsmen who stood outside her door.

"The queen is occupied at present," they replied.

He heard Cersei's soft tones, and Sansa's equally soft but insistent attempts to change the subject. Good girl. There might yet be hope for her. Certainly there was more chance now that Damon was here. While he might not wish to honour Ned's ridiculous demands regarding heirs to the throne, abandoning the girls was not an option.

"The Queen will want to see me," he said. "You do know who I am, yes?" No, obviously they didn't, but judging by the looks on their faces, they were assuming he and Cersei had relations beyond that of a sovereign and her subject. "I wonder what she would do if she ever finds out you kept me waiting outside her door? Hmm…you do have such beautiful eyes. It's a pity you do not know how to use them properly, so I suppose you really have no use for them." They still stared at him, but refused to move.

Did he have to do _everything_ himself? Servants these days.

* * *

**A/N: **What is Damon going to do _now_?


	21. The Damon Identity

**Chapter 21: The Damon Identity**

**King's Landing – The Palace**

The little dove thought herself an eagle. "Sansa, darling, your father has committed grave offences against the crown. The only way you can help him is to write to your brother and tell him to come to King's Landing to swear his allegiance to his king," Cersei said. She was reaching the end of her patience. Starks. They were all infuriating in their own way.

"My father is Lord of Winterfell, Your Grace," said Sansa. "It should be he who swears the oath of allegiance to the crown, not my brother."

"Your father is a traitor, Lady Sansa," said Baelish. Something akin to fear flickered across Sansa's face, but she schooled it into a mask. The soft little mouth hardened.

"He was misguided and misled by men who would seek to destroy him," she said. "He would never betray the crown. King Robert was his best friend! Please, Your Grace, you must believe me. Please give him a chance to see the error of his ways, I beg of you. He will be loyal."

"I believe you, Little Dove," said Cersei, "but others will not trust the word of a man who has denounced the king. Your brother must be the one to swear allegiance to the crown. His honour is not yet stained."

Pycelle leaned down close to her ear. "Perhaps it might be prudent to persuade her by more forceful means," he whispered. Cersei glanced at him in distaste. She knew he wasn't the senile and kind old man he pretended to be, but did he have to be so barbaric? It was in very bad form to physically harm a lord's daughter, even that of a traitorous lord. There would be so much to lose than to gain. Although, if Sansa continued like this, it might be the only path to pursue.

"Does the traitor's seed bear fruit?" asked Pycelle, addressing Sansa now.

"It must have been Lord Renly. He tricked my father. Everyone knows he always wanted to be king," she said, not looking at Pycelle at all but keeping her eyes focused on Cersei.

The two women stared at one another. Blue met green. They were both so stubborn. Sansa was young yet, but she would grow up one day. Cersei both anticipated and feared to see what the little dove could become.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the door opening. Who would dare to interrupt her? She was in no mood to see more annoying courtiers or advisors who never gave any good advice. If she wanted to get anything done, she needed to do it herself.

But the man who came in made her forget almost all her annoyance with useless counsellors and stubborn Starks.

"Your Grace." His sultry tones brushed her like a kiss. Well, all right. She didn't mind _this _interruption so much. Sansa whipped around at the sound of her bannerman's voice. Was that joy? Hope? Alarm?

"Ser Damon Salvatore," said Cersei. "How timely that you should come at this hour."

"I could not help but overhear your conversation with Lady Sansa, Your Grace," said Damon as he straightened from his bow. His blue eyes gleamed. Cersei wanted them to gaze upon her alone and with adoration. He did have the most beautiful eyes of any man, no, any person she had ever met. And he knew which way the wind was blowing. Intelligence in a man was dangerous and thrilling. "If you will allow me to have a word with Lady Sansa, Your Grace?"

Hmm…could she trust him? But he was here, and she wasn't going to let Damon out of her sight. If he tried anything…well, it would be a pity, but she had to remember that he had once been one of Ned Stark's knights. In fact, hadn't he been Ned Stark's only knight? Cersei leaned back, and upon hearing no objection from her, he turned to Sansa.

* * *

This was difficult. He'd never had to deal with such delicate situations before in his life. Actually, he had, but then he'd always just ripped his way through them with no thought for the body count. If his plan failed, someone's plan always worked out. Just as long as his enemy's plans didn't work out.

But he had to care about the body count now. The objective wasn't to save himself or even the currently absent Elena. Sansa was already in the grasp of the enemy, and this enemy was a lot brighter than Klaus.

And dealing with Klaus had been troublesome enough.

"My lady, consider your father's position," he said. "It would be in all our interests−" Here, he waved his hand around the whole room so it actually meant everyone. "−if Lord Robb comes in person to King's Landing to swear his allegiance to His Grace. Writing to Lord Robb and having him swear allegiance may be the only way to secure your father's pardon."

"Damon…" whispered Sansa.

He hoped his look was piercing and poignant enough for her to get the idea.

"Lord Robb is Lord of Winterfell now," Damon ploughed on. God, this was hard! Not that he believed in God. He had to put on a show for both Cersei and Sansa and they both had to believe he was on their side. He was not a two-faced bitch like…she-who-must-not-be-named. "Your father cannot be a lord of this realm, considering his treason, but as a lord's father, he may yet escape the traitor's fate. His fate, and the fate of your house, rest in your hands." He mentally crossed his fingers and hoped Robb was as smart as he thought he was and could read between the lines. Because if he _did_ come…

Well, even Damon couldn't save him then.

Sansa looked up at him with such hurt in her eyes. Despite all her bravado, she was still just a little girl; too little to play in the dangerous games of political machines; Cersei and her ilk weren't really people. Poor little Sansa had thought he had come to rescue her rather than to convince her to partake in this plot to nullify the threat of House Stark forever. But she still trusted him. She nodded.

Cersei dictated the letter to her, and she dutifully wrote down every word in her careful and still a little childish handwriting. There were more ink blots than usual as her hand shook just a little, and she was struggling not to cry.

The guards took her away after she was finished, and Cersei commanded Pycelle to send the little rolled up piece of parchment, sealed with red wax, with all haste. She was eager to be rid of the Starks, yet here was a wolf in lion's clothing standing right before her. How come all women had bad judgement when it came to him? Then again, she wanted him, and desire made people blind.

"Will you dine with me, Ser Damon?" she asked him when everyone had left.

"It would be my honour, Your Grace," he said. Well, widows got lonely, and he was extremely charming. It was understandable. He pulled a chair towards him and sat down without having been given permission to do so. Cersei looked him up and down like he was a new stallion to be broken or a piece of meat that she was trying to decide how to cook. Not that she knew how to cook anything.

"I have been wondering, how did you…escape?" asked Cersei. "No one from the Stark household lived."

She probably meant to ask why his head was not on a spike. Oh, he'd seen them. They were crude, but what could he expect? These people hadn't had a renaissance yet. They probably thought heads on spikes were the heights of sophistication on par with paintings of women with no eyebrows.

"I had no need to escape, Your Grace, considering I was not there," he said.

"Oh?" asked Cersei. "And where might you have been?"

"Things to do, places to see, people to talk to," said Damon. He let her draw her own conclusions from that.

"And by people you mean…a few ladies of debatable repute in the city, along with their master?" asked Cersei.

"Well…what can I say, Your Grace? I am merely a man, and men have needs and little control over them. Although, my tastes do not veer in the _other_ direction, if you get what I mean."

She laughed. "You were wasted on Eddard Stark," she said. He poured wine both for her and for himself. It was the good stuff; sweet, but not too sweet, with hints of plum and strawberries. Servants brought in platters of delicacies, with two roasted quails in red wine and blueberry sauce, so tender one could almost eat the bones, soft herbed bread with a thin flaky crust, still warm, to be eaten with garlic butter and carrot soup with garlic. Then there were lamb racks rubbed with rosemary and garlic and cooked until the insides were still just a little bit pink, and crabs fried with garlic and shallots.

There was a lot of garlic. Perhaps his Dracula stunt had shaken her more than she was showing.

No matter; garlic was delicious on most things except ice cream.

As before, he served her rather than allowing the servants to do it. Let her think he could be tamed. Cersei was a woman who did not love things, but she liked to own them. In fact, there was quite a bit of similarity between her and she-who-must-not-be-named. The latter, of course, was far more dangerous and unpredictable, for while Cersei only thought she was brilliant; she-who-must-not-be-named actually kind of was.

"So, now that Robb Stark is Lord of Winterfell, what is going to happen to the _old_ Lord Stark?" asked Damon. He ripped apart a crab to get at the sweet white meat within. They were impossible to eat politely and using just utensils. The juice ran down his fingers. He licked it off. Tasty, but not as tasty as fresh Lannister. Or Stark. But he had acquired a taste for Lannister men over these past couple of days, and Kingsguards with vile personalities didn't taste vile either. "Surely we can't have two of them. It would be awfully confusing."

"The matter will be dealt with accordingly," said Cersei.

"Let me guess; head, spike, wall?"

"Nothing so vulgar, I hope," said Cersei.

"Poison in the night, then, like Jon Arryn? Oh, don't look so surprised, Your Grace. The expression does not suit you."

"He is of no use to us dead. Alive, he may yet be a collar and leash for his handsome son. I would have thought you'd know this already."

Oh, good. If Cersei didn't want Ned dead, it would be a whole lot easier to formulate a plan to rescue him.

He grinned back at her. "I'm a man. We are not so subtle or farseeing."

Cersei leaned back. "You have spent some time with the Stark boy, yes?" she asked as she daintily sipped her wine and allowed her servant to dissect her crab for her. She stabbed some of the sweet white flesh with a tiny silver fork.

"Yes, I trained with Robb Stark, Your Grace," said Damon, carefully not referring to Robb as 'Lord Robb', although, truth be told, it was easier to refer to him as just Robb than with an honorific. It had never gelled with him, calling anyone a lord.

"What do you make of him?" asked Cersei.

"Responsible, as far as a boy can be responsible," said Damon. As if he was one who could talk about responsibility, considering the word had only recently half-entered his vocabulary. "But a boy still, and raised by Eddard Stark."

"Do you think he will come?"

"If there's one thing the Starks value more than honour, then it is family, Your Grace. He will come. Most likely with a horde of stinking ill-mannered northmen behind him."

"Pity," said Cersei. "He is such a handsome boy."

Cersei had no taste in men. Then again, she had fallen for Jaime Lannister…and him, of course. Actually, he'd just say Cersei had eclectic tastes.

* * *

**King's Landing – The Tower of the Hand**

The Tower of the Hand stood silent and abandoned. The bodies from earlier had been removed, but stale blood and brains still stained the stones. Elena heard no sound save for the distant hooting of an owl and the scurrying and squeaking of rats converging on a severed limb that had been forgotten beneath the bushes. She swallowed her disgust and held any fear that she felt at bay.

What had happened? She was hearing a thousand and one rumours about Lord Stark committing treason, but that didn't sound like him. He was one of the most honest people she'd ever met. She hunted about the grounds in the hopes of finding survivors from the Stark household who had hidden themselves away during the massacre, listening carefully for palace guards and Lannister men. She knew who the enemy were; that much was clear.

The rooms were all abandoned. Clothes and books and papers lay scattered. Vases had been shattered. She carefully checked each level, but found them to be all the same. Blood stains, sword marks, broken things. The door to Damon's room was ajar. She peeked inside, knowing that if he were still alive –and he had to be, because that Dracula stunt couldn't and wouldn't have been pulled off by anyone else− he would have been long gone by now, and they had been separated for long enough that she didn't know where he would go right now while the city was in full lock down and no one could get out.

His books were strewn about the floor. He had amassed an eclectic collection of folk tales, history, and poetry. Someone had smashed a jar of pink powder on the floor while they had been searching through his things. Why did Damon have blush? She didn't really want to know.

Her room was in the Hand's family quarters, next to Septa Mordane's. She'd seen the septa's head on the wall atop a spike, along with so many other people she had once known. The image had been burned into her memory. Elena removed a loose flagstone in her room beneath her bed, where she kept her wages. Thankfully no one had searched the maid's room too thoroughly and her small box of coins remained where she had left it. She emptied it. There were three silvers and a handful of coppers. If she needed more, she could steal it. She had learned some time ago that while compulsion didn't work in Westeros, she also had no need of an invitation to get into someone's house. It was a win-lose situation.

Suddenly, she slumped down against the wall, feeling the wild urge to laugh and cry at the same time. Elena Gilbert had been reduced to sneaking around in the night and stealing money. How low could she go? She'd failed to protect Sansa, failed to protect Arya, and now both of them were missing, presumably taken by Cersei Lannister. Damon was missing, and she didn't know where to find him. She didn't know why any of this was happening.

Elena wiped her tears from her face angrily. "Don't be stupid," she whispered into the darkness. Now was not the time to have a nervous breakdown, if ever there was a time to have one. She left her room and never looked back again. Lord Stark's quarters were in even more disarray. She had no idea why she had come here, or what she was looking for. Perhaps she thought she might be able to find clues as to why he had been taken.

Papers were scattered all over the floor, some covered in bloody boot prints. Most of these detailed the mundane goings on in the seven kingdoms, with reports on the monthly deficits –King Robert had had a debt ceiling higher than the Congress'−, taxes, raids on the Riverlands, and unused paper.

But paper was one of those things that retained memories. In the light of the moon, which cast stark shadows wherever there was a shadow to be cast, she saw faint impressions on one of the blank sheets from a letter Lord Stark had been writing on the sheet of paper above it.

She scrabbled around in her pocket, looking for the piece of charcoal that she always kept there in lieu of a pencil. Quills and ink were inconvenient tools with which to make quick notes. She lightly brushed the charcoal over the paper. The impressions on it remained pale.

The letter was addressed to Lord Stannis Baratheon, King Robert's brother.

Her eyes widened.

No wonder Lord Stark had denounced Joffrey! She quickly folded up the piece of paper and stuffed it in her pocket. What was she supposed to do with this information? She searched the room further in case there were more secrets like this the soldiers had missed when they had raided the place. For a moment, she felt guilty as if she were intruding on Lord Stark's privacy –all right, she _was_, but she was doing it so she could figure out just what had happened and then let Jon and Lord Robb know.

Indeed, Robb Stark needed to know about this. Finally, at the end of a confusing day, just as the moon was reaching its apex over the sleeping city, Elena had her destination.

She looked under the bed, feeling around for anything that might remotely resemble her loosened flagstone. And she found it. A coincidence, or fate? It had not been disturbed for some time, because there was a thick layer of dust over it, and a spider had begun to make its home above it. She felt a little bad about wrecking its hard work as she removed the stone and reached down cautiously. Just because she was a vampire did not mean she didn't care about being bitten by poisonous things.

She found a bundle of notebooks tied together with string. The graceful flowing writing on the pages was unfamiliar to her, but she recognized the books for what they were; diaries kept over several years detailing the life of the Hand who had come before Ned Stark, with all his observations about King's Landing and brief abbreviated notes.

She'd found Jon Arryn's diaries. She'd never known anyone in Westeros to have kept a diary before. She quickly went to the last volumes, skimming over the pages.

Towards the end of his life, his entries became briefer and more furtive. The second to last volume remained unfinished. Maybe Arryn had become too ill to write by then. Then there was a blank book, its pages inviting another pen. She didn't know why she did it, but she tied the notebooks back together and added them to her meagre bundle of belongings. The men had left the pens and ink alone. She supposed Lord Stark wouldn't mind her pilfering his stationary supplies. She would pay him back if she ever saw him again.

* * *

**King's Landing – Flea Bottom**

It wasn't hard to slip out of his room through the window and make his way across the rooftops to Flea Bottom where Arya and Forel waited. No one noticed the shadow jumping from house to house. Night time was a vampire's best friend. On the way, he grabbed a quick snack. The drunk's blood tasted of cheap booze, but it revived him considerably. Creating Ned's elaborate dream had tired him.

"What took you so long?" Arya hissed when he dropped down through the broken roof of the abandoned house.

"Is that how you greet the man who brings you dinner?" he asked. He handed her a wrapped bundle of bread, cheese, and fruit, along with a skin of watered wine. Forel and Arya fell upon the food, with the former being a much more dainty eater than the little Stark could ever be.

"Did you see my father?" asked Arya through a mouthful of cheese.

"I did," said Damon. "He's all right for a man who is in the Black Cells. I told him not to worry about you because you're with me."

"I think that is legitimate cause to worry," said Forel.

"Shut up," said Damon. "What would you have done? Died defending her? Anyway, Cersei doesn't want him dead. She wants to use him to control Robb, who should know about all of this in a couple of days because Sansa wrote to him. Yes, I saw her too, and I'm gonna try and get her out."

"What about my father?"

"Like I said, Cersei's not going to kill him."

"So what is she going to do?"

Damon paused, and decided to be honest. "I don't know," he replied. "I'll try to get him out if I can, but I don't think it will be as easy as getting Sansa out. He's too useful to her, and if we're not careful, not only will it not help him or Sansa, they might get you too."

"But you have to try!"

Damon crouched down. He hated dealing with emotional kids. He wasn't someone's dad! And he never wanted to be! Baby vampires didn't count, and he didn't like looking after those either unless they were named Elena. "Listen," he said. "I made a promise to your father that no matter what happens, I'm going to get you back to Robb. And I'm going to do that regardless of what else happens." Regardless of what else happened. His mind automatically went to Elena, lost out there somewhere. Was she still in King's Landing? He had neither heard nor seen a sign of her up in the Red Keep.

He must have betrayed something in his expression, because Arya stopped demanding that he rescue everyone.

"I have to head back," he said when they were finished. "I have to stay in the Red Keep from now on if I'm to get Cersei's full trust and get Sansa out. Stay here, and stay hidden."

* * *

**Winterfell**

Robb crushed the letter in his hand. They'd taken his father and his sisters. And now they wanted him to swear loyalty to that little golden-haired shit? Well, they wanted him in King's Landing, did they? He'd go, but he wouldn't be going alone.

"Rally the banners," he commanded. "If they want me to go to King's Landing, I'll go to King's Landing with an army so large they won't be able to see the end of it." He quickly wrote two letters; one to his mother at the Eyrie, and one to Jon on the Wall. He didn't know why he wrote the latter one, considering Jon had probably already sworn his oaths and couldn't leave. But Jon needed to know, and Jon was his brother. There was no one he trusted more.

"Are you frightened?" asked Theon once they were alone.

Robb held up his hand. He couldn't keep it still. "My hand is shaking. I must be," he said, trying to muster a smile but he couldn't really.

"Good," said Theon. "It means you're not stupid."

Robb nodded. His blood rushed by his ears so quickly it sounded like a torrent after the snowmelt. "Winter is coming for all of us, Theon," he said. "I need to see Bran."

* * *

**King's Landing – The Palace**

The servants hurried about, carrying hangings and trestle tables, while banners were being hung throughout the great hall in preparation for new Higg King of Westeros' grand coronation ceremony. The hall had probably not been decorated and cleaned in such a way since Robert's coronation, or perhaps his wedding. But the atmosphere was probably even worse than _that_ fateful day. There was an undertone of fear as they all wondered what would happen to them if the new king was not pleased. The cruelties of Prince Joffrey were well-known, and becoming King Joffrey was probably not going to improve his personality much.

Cersei, ever the proud mother, surveyed the preparations with satisfaction. "You are a man with a keen eye, Ser Damon," she said. "What do you think?"

The pomp and ceremony was all very well, but… "Forgive me for saying so, Your Grace, but the flowers do not match," he said.

"Oh?" said Cersei. "Tell me more."

Damon fingered one of the flower arrangements, stroking the petals of the white roses. "In my homeland, flowers have meanings, and in this case, white roses represent purity, innocence, secrecy and silence, and much better suited to a new bride than a new king."

"What would be your suggestion, then?"

"I would say…black calla lilies, for one, to symbolize the rebirth of the kingdom under King Joffrey's rule. And then golden swords of victory, which in my homeland we call the gladiolus, to symbolize victory against his enemies and those who would oppose him. And in the centre, a single red sugarbush blossom to represent his strength of character. Coincidentally, these are the colours of both His Grace's houses. What do you think, Your Grace?"

"I approve," said Cersei. She ordered the servants to dispose of the roses and to replace them with Damon's suggestions. The cost would be great, but she was sparing no cost in glorifying her son. Besides, it was very hard to run out of money when your family _owned_ all the money.

* * *

**The Riverlands**

_There were two strange men following her. They'd been following her since morning when she'd left the ramshackle excuse for an inn. They weren't even being particularly subtle about it. Frankly, she was insulted. Did they think she was _that_ stupid? At least they could have maintained a larger distance and varied it every now and then. Instead, they'd kept themselves about twelve yards behind her constantly. It was as if she had invisible strings tethering them to her. _

_Well, she liked it when men chased her. The market was busy this morning. Hawkers were selling fish of all sizes. Their scales gleamed like armour in the sun, and their mouths were open in silent aquatic screams. Not that fish could scream; they hadn't evolved voice boxes. _

_She ducked around a large round barn filled with hay and instantly jumped onto the thatched roof. She almost laughed out loud as she watched them going in circles around the barn trying to look for her. No one ever looked up. _

"_Let's split up," one of them told his companion. They split up, one going clockwise, and one going anti-clockwise. They encountered each other at the halfway point, looked about in confusing, and continued on their way. She waited until she was tired of the little show –how many circles could they walk in anyway before they realized she was _not there_?– and swooped down to snag one of them while his companion was on the other side of the barn. _

_She liked hot breakfasts. His struggles ceased as she drained all of him and then she let the body drop in front of his friend. _

_The man began screaming. She dropped down in front of him. "Shhh, it's all right. No need to be scared. Were you looking for me?" _

"_You're Katherine Pierce!" he said. He backed away from her. Did she have breakfast on her face? _

"_It appears you already know me, but I do not have the pleasure of knowing you," she said. "What is your name, and who do you work for?" _

"_I work for Lord Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin and trusted advisor to King Joffrey Baratheon." _

"_And what would a man such as Lord Petyr Baelish want with a humble bard like me?" _

"_That is not for you to know." _

"_But I am curious, ser. You see, it's one of my flaws." _

_She sauntered up to him and took his hand. He had fine hands, more like a courtier than a soldier. She placed it on her breast. His breaths became very shallow. _

_Then she snapped his little finger._

_He yelled and screamed and tried to run, but she had a good grip on him now. The market was a noisy place full of shouting fishermen and fishwives. No one heard him. "Come now, don't be such a baby. All you have to do is satisfy my curiosity. Then you'll be free of me." _

"_I don't know why he wants you! It has something to do with Edmure Tully! He sent a letter!" _

"_Thank you," she said. She broke his other little finger to make a point. He screamed again. It was getting annoying, so she silenced him forever._

* * *

**Review replies: **

JordieFan: Damon is very happy he can finally be himself again, although he's not so happy with Ned being so very stubborn about his rules and putting Stannis on the throne. Which means Damon will obey the orders he likes and ignore the ones he doesn't. He doesn't really know how to be a good bannerman. Ned is very angry with him. Arya is still rather trusting of Damon, perhaps a little too trusting. But we'll see what that gets her. ;)

Jack: Damon just being himself. :) He's always been this awesome (in his own mind, anyway). Lately, he has been somewhat repressed by Elena's expectations and aspirations for him. But he'll be back to true form soon. Westeros will help.

Robin: We started writing crossovers for the sole reason we couldn't find the ones we wanted to read. We're glad you're enjoying our crazy take on things.

Guest: Damon obviously likes the sound of King Damon the First. ;) Although it could have been Damon offering Ned two separate views of the future. He could either have King Robb, or King Damon, and we all know which king Ned would choose as the lesser evil. Unfortunately for Damon, Ned believes in c) Other. Aulendil loves the first episode of TVD and biased in favour of a certain ex-vampire. Telcontar is more invested in the Originals because she loves Klaus, but she has seen TVD, and hopes Damon will bond more with Jeremy because that was cute.

Tag: We actually started this story a while ago so we do have a lot of chapters written up and whenever we update, we simply cut and edit what we have written. It's a great deal of fun so it doesn't really feel like work, because it's not really.


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